


The Interview

by silsuffisait



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-11
Updated: 2009-05-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 45,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22004551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silsuffisait/pseuds/silsuffisait
Summary: The elusive fifth Beatle gives an interview about her life.
Relationships: George Harrison/Original Character(s)





	1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Interview  
**Rating:** PG-13, but R in certain areas  
**Pairing:**Liz/George

**Summary:** The elusive fifth Beatle gives an interview about her life.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Beatles and this is about as AU as you can get. Involves a fictional "fifth" Beatle, so a history (and certain dates) will very obviously be fudged with. This is a dream that I had for a week -- this wrote itself.

**Summer, 2008 **

The reporter from _Rolling Stone_ looked at me from across my kitchen table. Her eyes were filled with a mixture of curiosity and calm, and I could almost hear the thoughts going through her head, “What does Liz McCartney have to tell me of all people?” I saw her switch on one of those new fangled voice recorders that she’d removed from her bag a while ago and set it on the table.

That’s who I am, by the way, and yes, I know that you know who I am: Elizabeth “Liz to my intimates” McCartney…Harrison if you feel the need to be specific; the one and only female guitarist in one of the best rock bands that ever existed. That I happened to be the younger sister of one and eventually married another member of this rock band made me more than an anomaly; I was a walking curiosity.

It was a cold Thursday morning, the kind of morning that George loved when he was alive. I looked past the reporter’s shoulder to stare fondly out the window onto the rose bushes that he’d so lovingly tended the few weeks before he’d died. “Spring’s a-coming, Liz. Think about looking at the rose bushes when you’re having your cuppa in the morning.” And he’d smiled at me, a glint of mischievousness in those dark brown eyes of his that had somehow always managed to look deeper into me than anyone else had.

It didn’t hurt to think about George anymore, not the way it used to. He’d told me once, a few months before he died to “always keep the thoughts I had of him happy because they’d reach him wherever they were.” Having loved that man for over thirty-five years, I’d had plenty of not-so happy thoughts to take along with the happy ones, but fortunately, the former had faded over the years, and in their place, the happier had taken precedence.

“So Elizabeth –“

“Call me Liz,” I interjected immediately, giving the reporter what I hoped was a friendly smile.

She smiled, and I guessed that it had helped. “Liz, I’d like to thank you for granting us this exclusive interview. I understand that you haven’t given an interview since George died…” Her words trailed off in one of those pauses that people use when they are unsure of how to or even if they should talk about something. I gave her a quick nod, before proceeding.

“This is the first interview I’ve given since we were promoting the _Anthology_.”

“Why now? What made you decide that this was the time to finally speak?”

I coughed and automatically reached for my cup of tea and brought it to my lips, wanting to give myself a few seconds before continuing. Not knowing whether I’d be able to.

“I’m not sure exactly. I thought it was time to just go for it. I’ve never been too comfortable with the entire notion of giving interviews; my early days in the business quickly cured me of whatever interest I might’ve had for it.” The words rolled out of my tongue smoothly, quickly, and most importantly, honestly. I tucked a piece of dark hair littered with strands of grey that hung close to my face behind my ear.

The reporter (whose name is Nancy Carmichael by the way, but I feel weird calling her as ‘Nancy’ when I doubted I’d see her again after I got through this…something as necessary as this) nodded and then smiled, almost eagerly. “Can I just say something and get it out of the way? I have the feeling that it will be very awkward for me if I don’t.” I nodded in response, not entirely too completely sure where this was headed, but having an idea. “I am such a fan of yours! I mean, do you ever stop and think to yourself, ‘I am Liz McCartney! I was part of one of those influential groups in music! I am an inspiration to every single female musician around today!’?!”

I laughed at the excitement in her voice, unable to do anything other than that as I imagined myself to be the oh-so-mythical creature she’d just described. “I guess I’ve had my moments, but in answer to your question, not really.”

“How can you not though? You were a part of The Beatles! It’s been over forty-four years since you came to the States for the first time, and young kids are still getting into music. My son is actually attempted to learn how to play the intro to I’ve Just Seen A Face and is driving us up the wall!” I chuckled along with her.

“I see myself as a person who loved to make music and who was lucky enough to get the chance to be in a band that people liked. I’m not too different from most women out there you know, I was just able to do something that I loved to do. But it’s very sweet that your son is trying to learn that bit; it’s one I liked a lot.” I felt a fond smile cover my face as I thought of my own grandson Rafferty singing along to _Octupus’s Garden_ when I dropped him off at nursery school a few weeks ago.

“Well I know that I am speaking for all our readers when I say that you accomplished something that most of us can only dream of. You were one of the first women that paved the way for female musicians, not just female vocalists, in music.”

I coughed, feeling uncomfortable with praise that I felt was almost a little unfounded. “Thank you,” I said finally before noticing her empty cup. “Fancy more coffee?” I asked. I’d purposely purchased some coffee from the shop a mile down the road for my American guest. The light on the Mr. Coffee (my son Sam’s idea of a joke) was still on.

“Oh no, I’m fine for now thank you.” The reporter paused for a moment and I let it be because unlike many, I wasn’t uncomfortable with silence, with the quiet of being with another person. “What was it like though? If you could start from the beginning, what was all of it like?”

I laughed, “It was…I think as John once described it, like being in the eye of a hurricane. It’s uhhh…hard to describe it properly.”

“If you could though, ‘describe it properly’, what was it like from the very beginning?”  
I looked at her consideringly over the rim of my cup. What was it like from the very beginning? Was it possible to describe something like sixty-five years of memories in one go? Did I even want to bother? I tried to remember why I’d agreed to do this in the first place, why I had finally told my publicist Derek, “Alright then, I’ll give it a go” when he’d mentioned it to me a month ago after refusing to do interview after interview over the past forty-five years of my fairly hermit-like life, only agreeing in the first few years of the madness that was The Beatles when one of the lads or Brian had wrangled me into it.  
  
“Err well…You know that I’m an old geezer, don’t you? What I have to tell isn’t really different from anything one of the others told – it was a pretty mad for the most part.” I chuckled, knowing that what I’d just said was an understatement.

Being the good reporter that I knew she was (I had read her interview with David Bowie a few years ago and had been quite impressed – as impressed as I could be with journalists in general that was) she answered quickly, “You’ve never spoken about it, and I’m sure that the fans would love to know: What was it like to be ‘Elizabeth McCartney’ during the trajectory of The Beatles?” The way she said my name made my stomach drop; I still was not used to the reverence that some people had in their voices when they talked about me (when they did).  
I suddenly remembered a chat I’d had with my old friend Eric about a photo of a dog pissing over ‘Clapton is God!’ spray painted on the side of a building. The irony of it had made us giggle like loons (it could have also been the Cuban sized hash ciggie we were sharing between us). Probably not something that I should tell yon reporter. All I needed was Eric-bloody-Clapton to take the mickey out of me for telling stories about us after so long.  
“How long do we have again?” I asked with a laugh and she replied in kind, “An abundance of it, I’m afraid.” She smiled and I did the same.

Well that was it then. I guess I’d try to spare the gruesome detail – it was one thing to deal with old friends like Eric, but it was quite another to get the perennial well meant brotherly ring from older brother Paulie.

“How long have you played the guitar, Liz?” My mind stopped wandering.

“I began messing 'round with it when I was about thirteen, but didn’t take it seriously until I was about sixteen. I’d been a true blue cellist until then – still am at the heart of it.” I settled back into the curved back of my comfortable wooden chair.

“Oh yes! You played the cello on a few of your albums didn’t you?”

I nodded. “Yeah, whichever song John or Paul decided needed some sort of orchestral accompaniment, there I’d be with my trusty Stradivarius!” I grinned as a I remembered my first big purchase. The lads had taken the mickey out of me for buying a cello when they were off buying Rolls Royces and Aston Martins, but I’d loved it on sight and it had a room of its own upstairs – I doubted that Nancy would get a look at it.

“_Eleanor Rigby_ wouldn’t have been the same without it!”

“I played both the violin and the cello on it, but thank you.” I knew that I was giving the reporter the opening that she was looking for, and like I said before, being the good reporter I knew she was, she took it.

“You learned to play the piano first though?”

Right. “Our Dad had been in jazz band when he was younger and taught us to play the piano as babes. I remember how Paul and I would thrash away on our old piano while Mike worked the pedals. Paul’d work one half of the keyboard while I took the other.” I couldn’t keep the grin off my face as I remembered the Saturday afternoons we’d spend doing that and how sore he got when we were older and I’d learned to play Jerry Lee Lewis’s _Great Balls of Fire_ before he did.

I held that over his head to this very day.

“When did you decide that you wanted to play the cello?”

“I was about seven.” I leaned forward in my seat, resting my chin on the heel of my hand. ”I remember that I was helping my Mum make tea one day and we had the radio in our kitchen switched on. My Mum used to love to hear classical music when she was home during the day, and that day I heard someone playing a piece by Elgar and I remember thinking to myself ‘That’s the most beautiful sound in the entire world!’ and after finding out that the fella on the radio was playing the cello, I hounded my parents about three weeks to let me take lessons. Finally my Mum arranged for me to take lessons with an old school teacher who lived down the road from us.”

“So at the great age of seven you decided that you wanted to play the cello.”

“I enjoyed learning to play it, but really, I just loved music. So yeah, I started off with it, but fairly soon I began to play around with a few other instruments –“

“How many do you play?”

I paused while I considered. “Well including the piano and the cello (obviously), I’ve played around with the violin, the harpsichord, the harp, the metronome, the mandolin and a few others– the thing with some instruments is that if you can play one decently, you’ll do alright the others, or at least, it’ll come easier.”

“That’s certainly enough to make your CV look pretty impressive I have to say! Before we get into it though, can we establish some well or even not-so-well known general information for our readers?”

“Alright then.” I replied after a brief pause.

“What is your full name?” It was one of those questions that we were asked by fan rags back in the day – I fully expected to be asked what my favourite foods were.

I shook my head and laughed, “Mary Elizabeth McCartney….Harrison.”

“You’re like Paul then and go by your middle name then?”

“When I was young, since our Mum and I had the same name, it could get a wee bit confusing to ask for ‘Mary’ and have both of us respond, so I was known as ‘Liz’ from the time I was a wee one.”

“When is your birthday?” Another fan rag questions. I expected to be describing my favourite colour in the next three minutes.

“Do you really expect a woman my age to tell you that?!” The reporter obviously did not know if I was taking ‘the piss’ as she may have expected most English people to do, or if I was offended, but I was grinning so I think she decided that I meant no harm. “It’s 15th March of 1943 – the ides of March.” I chuckled.

“You and Paul are about nine months apart then?” She looked impressed and almost a little horrified.

“Mike and I were born early, but aye, you can tell that Mum and Dad wanted to get the baby makin' out of the way!"

“So you all grew up together then? You were playmates?” She gave me a surprised smile.

“Yeah, the three of us were great mates.” I drank more of my tea. “I know about the weirdness that most brothers and sisters have together; that it isn’t until they’re older that they can have anything to do with each other without wanting to punch each other’s faces in, but that was never the case with us.”

“Are you and Paul very close?” She made the prospect of it sound terribly sweet.

“We’re terrific mates; we’ve gone through a lot together, you know. He can be a bit of an old woman at times, but he’s a lovely man and I love him dearly. You know how family is, through thick and thin and all that.”

“So how did _all of this_ come about then? How did you go from being the younger sister, someone who might have considered becoming a professional cellist, to being in a rock band like The Beatles?” Hearing her question made me glad that I’d kept the kettle on – this might take a while.

“I think to answer that, I should start all the way at the beginning then.” And so I did.

*****

“Our Mum died when I was thirteen, and after that we were raised by our Dad. During that time, there was a lot of talk between him and a few of my aunts so that I could go and live with one of them. It was hard for my Dad to raise two boys and a girl on his own, and he probably thought it’d be easier for me to be raised by an auntie. But I wouldn’t have none of it, and after a month or so, the talk ended. I didn’t want to leave my family.”

“That must have been difficult for you – losing your mother at such a young age,” she said to me sympathetically.

I coughed, a little uncomfortably, “No more difficult than for anyone else going through the same thing, I guess. “

“But to lose your mother just as you turned into a teenager and were going through all those changes, were experiencing all those thoughts and feelings that all teenage girls go through, must have been very difficult.” I looked at her consideringly before nodding slightly.  
  
“I guess in the beginning it was rough, but my old man raised us the best he could and then again, the aunties were always around in case I needed a woman’s touch or I was getting common as muck. Our Auntie Gin, Dad’s sister, was really lovely. The most obvious thing that came from it was that I really didn’t have someone constant in my life who taught me how to behave as a young woman.” My eyes widened with this last part, and looking at the reporter, I could see that she understood what I meant. “It’s not that I was raised as a lad or anything, but during my adolescence, I developed a very ‘you don’t talk about it’ or ‘get on with it’ type of attitude about stuff. We weren't encouraged to sit around feelin' sorry for ourselves or anything.”

“Have you found that not having that constant feminine presence in your live has affected certain relationships you’ve had with other women?”

“Yes and no. I tend to be a lot more straight up about things, not so waffly as most women. But that’s not always a good thing I’ve found. But as I said, our Dad was really wonderful, truly. He was a very dependable sort of fella, and a really lovely old guy. More importantly, he could see that we really enjoyed music and didn’t discourage us from making it or listening to Elvis or Chuck Berry.”

“He was very encouraging of you when you were going through your ‘true blue’ cellist phase?”

“Oh aye, he was very encouraging. He knew that I enjoyed it and didn’t discourage me from getting on with it whenever I liked.” I had a sudden memory of my dear old Dad yelling at me to stop with the bloody Bach after an entire afternoon I’d spent practicing, but only because it was my turn to make supper.

“How did your Dad handle your brother eventually dropping out of school to play music full time in The Quarry Men?”

I laughed. “I’m sure he would have preferred something different, but I know that he understood that music is what Paul wanted to do. Paul’d expressed an interest in going to teaching college when he was young you see. But I remember that that changed when Paul and John met up for the first time that it was the summer of ’57. In that time, all the surrounding parishes would have fetes, or ‘neighborhood block parties’ as you Americans call them, and bands would perform. Most of them were crap,” I grinned, “but Paul had gone to the one at Woolton with one of his mates from school and had come home going on about a bloke he’d met who fronted a skiffle group. He had told me that this kid, who as you may guess, was John Lennon, was pretty impressed that he knew all the words to _Twenty Flight Rock_ when he’d performed it. I just remember how impressed Paul seemed to be with John, and I had a similar impression from John about Paul when I met him for the first time.

“When did that happen?” I could see her eyes brighten as I mentioned whom I assumed to be her favourite Beatle. The Witty One struck again.

“After meeting up, Paul and John began to hang around a lot together and then Paul joined the band. Eventually, I think it was a few weeks later, Paul brought him to our house for a jam session. John was a class act, a real teddy boy if there was one, and our Dad wasn’t too keen on him. But you could see that they really enjoyed pissing around with one another.”

“I’m sure your Dad must have liked him a lot more when Paul decided to go along to Hamburg with them!”

“It wasn’t what my Dad would have wanted, and he was pretty vocal about it, but I think that he saw it as something that Paul needed to get out of his system and so he didn’t stand in the way. Even though they were all really young – John wasn’t even twenty, Paul was almost eighteen and George only seventeen, he’d joined the band a few months after Paul – they decided to go to Hamburg to try to make it big!”

“Did you go too?”

“No, wasn’t in the band yet, but I did visit for a few days during a school holiday.”

“Your Dad didn’t have a fit when you went to visit? You were seventeen when they went over, right?”

I laughed, “I don’t believe he was too worried about it actually. As I said earlier, from the age of thirteen, I was raised with my Dad and brothers – virtually sandwiched between the both of them, so it was sort of inevitable that going through my adolescence wouldn’t be too common. ‘Sides, I was going to visit my brother, and was paying my own way, and I don’t think he felt right telling me, ‘Cor, Liz, you carn’t be going off to Hamburg to visit your brother and his band of scousers!’” I raised my brows in that exaggerated way my Dad used to when he was quite excited about something, which even-tempered fella he’d been, hadn’t happened too often.

She chuckled. “What was their being in Hamburg like?”

“They lived in the Reeperbahn, so there was lots of booze and crazy sexual deviance or something like that going on all the time, or at least that’s I was told.” I said this with an amused grin, feeling the crinkles on my eyes become even more apparent than they already were.

The reporter’s eyes widened, not having expected how candid I probably spoke about it. I hoped that she didn’t need reminding that the lads and I had taken “the world by storm” during the era of Free Love and countless mind-altering chemicals.

“Were they expecting you?”

“I just showed up one morning at the beginning of one of my school hols. The way it had come about was that Paul and I kept up with each other through letters. Before he’d gone off to Hamburg that first time – posing as student who hadn’t even managed to finish his O Levels mind you – we’d agreed to write to each other every day. We were very good mates and it wasn’t as if we could just ring each other when the fancy struck – it was the ‘50s after all! I remember how bloody excited he was in all of his letters! He’d said they lived in a fairly rundown flat, but really, they lived in a shithole with barely a pot to piss in, in a ramshackle old building that should have been bulldozed to the ground ages before! But he loved it, or at least really enjoyed living that sort of bohemian lifestyle that we’d only read about!”

The reporter shook her head in what I assumed to be good-natured amusement. I found myself relaxing as I decided to let an old lady have a thrill by recounting this reporter with old stories about a life that she’d lived long ago. I think George would have taken the piss at me for still feeling a little nervous about this, and would have dropped a kiss on the top of my head for doing it regardless.

For the first time in a few days, I felt my heart clench as I thought about my husband. It had been over seven years, and blimey, I missed him still.

“So how did that visit go?”

I had more tea before I continued. “It was good I think.” I laughed as I remembered the day I’d arrived that first time and how surprised George had looked when he’d opened the door to the craphole they were living in, and had seen me looking up at him with dismay.

I’d known George since he and Paul had become mates a few years before and had found him to be an observant fellow with a very sweet and sly smile. One of the things that he and Paul had connected over had been their mutual adoration for all things rock and roll, and had very quickly started having mini jam sessions at our house whenever Dad had gone to work. Even though I’d only messed around with the guitar at that point, still being a staunch admirer of my beloved cello, I’d thought that his playing was brilliant and had loved to hear him play.

I remember thinking to myself when George had swung open that door, after yelling out, “Keep your hair on! I’m coming!” that he had the deepest, darkest brown eyes I’d ever seen. It hadn’t been love at first sight, or any of that nonsense (it was too late for that, I think), but I remember how taken aback I’d been about seeing him again.

His hair had been sticking out in all sorts of directions and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he was recovering from one hell of a hangover. “Alright, George?” I’d asked as I had wrapped my fingers around the handle of my suitcase and walked past him. The first thing I’d noticed was all the empty bottles of booze and cigarette butts littered all over the filthy rug.

“Liz what are you doing here?!” He’d asked, his eyes round with surprise.

“I came for a visit, what does it look like I’m doing? Oi, Paul!” I had called out. Fifteen seconds later I’d heard a slew of bloody fucking hells before my brother had made an appearance, zipping up his jeans on the way. He had looked like hell I remembered; his eyes had been bloodshot and like George, his hair was standing in all directions.

“What’s your game, Liz?” Paul had asked while I had set my suitcase next by the wall.

“Just came for a wee visit,” I had replied with what I’d known to be a shit-eating grin.

“Fucking hell, Liz, does Dad know you’re here?” He had rubbed his eyes sleepily.

“Aye, ‘course he does,” I had handed my coat to a flustered looking George and had given him what I hoped was a reassuring grin. “Paulie, get your knickers out of a twist! You’re frightening George! Speaking of which your Mum sent along some scones for you, Georgie. They were delicious!” I had laughed up at my brother just as I had leaned over to give him a one-armed hug.

Having heard whatever commotion had been going on, John and Pete had come out from that back hallway, and were followed by two thoroughly disheveled looking birds who were messing with their hair.

Not that I would have expected him to, but John had not held back his, “Bloody hell, Paul, what’s she doing here?” as both girls had walked around me without so much a look, still adjusting their skirts when they opened the door and left. Even though I’d been seventeen at the time, I hadn’t been a fool and had known what they’d been about. I had been curious whether Cyn knew what her man was up to.

“Sod off, John, I came for a visit.”

I remember how John had looked at me through narrowed lids before replying, “Youse up the duff or something?”

“Wait a fuckin'–“ Paul had begun before I’d cut in.

“I’d watch my gob if I was you, John Lennon. Paulie isn’t the only one in the family with a sneaky upper cut – who do you think taught it to him, mate? Now give us a hug, lovie.” I had continued with a grin, and to my amusement, he’d done just that, even giving me a leer as he had pulled back. “What a nice bit of crumpet you’ve become, young Liz.” I had told him off and asked him to put the kettle on, which he had done surprisingly. John had been a sucker for battle-axes in training! So even though I had been an uninvited guest in their flat, the fact that I was only staying for a week, didn’t raise a fuss about sleeping on their sofa, and that I offered to visit the shop down the road for proper food, made them all more kindly disposed towards me.

That night, dressed in their black leather and cowboy boots, they’d headed out to the Kaiserkeller and I remember my momentary sense of shock when I saw them pass around pills which John had affectionately called Prellies, before heading on stage to perform their multiple hour set. I wasn’t a babe in the woods by any means, so I knew that the surge of energy they received within minutes was totally artificial, but I’d decided to not ask about it.

It would be the first of many, many times that I’d see them experience the euphoria that came about from free-spirited drug use.

“Did you ever see them perform during that visit?” I heard the reporter ask me and I was instantaneously brought almost fifty years later. I wondered how long I’d been quiet for.

“That very first night and every night I was there. The club they performed at was some rat hole, let me tell you.”

“Was any of the magic from their later performances present then?” She asked me, leaning forward with obvious interest. I didn’t know if I had the heart to disillusion the poor girl by telling her that they were all three sheets to the wind by the end of their performance and having gotten over whatever scruples they had with my being Paul’s younger sister, had taken up with a few of the strippers that hung around the club. They hadn’t been shit, but they had definitely been crap.

“Errr….it was a very exciting time for them,” was what I’d say about that, there were a few things that should remain Beatles lore rather than Beatles facts.

“So it was during that trip that Stuart Sutcliffe decided to leave the band?”

“It was around that time yes.” I didn’t want to talk about what had happened with Stu.

“Did you join the band when he decided to leave?”

I shook my head, “No, it was a while before that came about.” The reporter looked frustrated for a moment before masking it. I knew exactly what I was doing.

I didn’t want to tell her the extent to which the craziness had gone in Hamburg. I didn’t want to talk about how the lads spent their time pissed off their arses or chasing tarts when they weren’t playing almost never ending gigs at those clubs. I especially did not want to talk about why I didn’t tell Cyn or Paul’s then-girlfriend Dot about what the lads were getting up to in Germany when I returned to Liverpool.

“So while the guys were living lives of depravity in Hamburg, what did you get up to during your visit over?”

“Not too much, really. I was able to do a little sightseeing, but mind you, this was post WWII Germany, so there wasn’t anything too exciting to see. There were a lot of bands to see perform, so that was good fun for the most part.” There was no point in telling her about the German bloke I’d spent snogging all night snogging two nights after I arrived.

“Did George go sightseeing with you?”

I grinned, “He did actually. I don’t think he’d seen much outside of the Reeperbahm to be honest.” I was instantly taken back to that cold October morning when we’d headed off to explore Hamburg a bit. There had been an air of comfortable familiarity between us, and though he was only a month or so older than myself, I felt safe with him, had known that nothing bad could happen with me. In retrospect, he’d been such a slight lad that if a gang of hoodlums had descended on us to take the last of my Deutschmarks that I’d doubted he’d be able to fight them all off, but going around with this scruffy looking lad with mad dark hair, decked out in teddy boy gear, I felt safer than anywhere else in the world.

Until that morning, I had never spent any time alone with George, and actually, if Paul hadn’t been passed out on the sofa, I doubted I ever would have. He was my brother’s mate, not mine though we did take the mickey out of each other on occasion; he’d joined Paul in calling me mental for spending countless hours a week practicing the cello. That morning we had somehow become friends, and I am sure those old folks walking around the old part of the city had thought we were no more than a pair of hoodlums – he in his black leather jacket and me in the black sunglasses I’d sweet talked Stu into giving me the second day I was in Hamburg.

I saw the reporter’s eyes gleam with interest, and wasn’t surprised by it. “Did your romance with George Harrison start during that trip? Was it love at…re-sight?”

I laughed, “No, no! We were both young as babes then and wouldn’t have known what to do with ourselves if that had happened!” The thought of the George I’d gone sightseeing with that cold grey morning telling me he fancied me made me want to giggle like a loon. “It might have been that we liked each other as friends; that’s all we were then.”

“So there was no great love story between you and George from the very beginning?”

“Blimey, that would have been awful!”

“He didn’t confess any undying love for you before you went home?” There was as smile on her face.

I chuckled once again, “I think George was too interested in what they were doing in Hamburg to really consider anything like that, ‘sides, they were were a band of young lads set loose.”

“So that time, and the times that followed, it didn’t bother you to know that there were all those girls in Hamburg?”

I was silent for a minute as I thought about it, not too sure how I should go about answering this or whether I should give a very Paul-like answer and say, “I don’t talk about that.” But I wanted to be honest, or at least as honest as I could be. “I liked him a lot, but wasn’t in love with him then, so it didn’t bother me, no.”

“When did that change, Liz?” I knew we were probably going to delve into deeper waters than I’d anticipated. It was so quiet I could hear the tiny hum of the voice recorder. I cleared my throat.

“It wasn’t for years yet and even then it was swept under the carpet for a while.”

“How did it come about? How did he come out and tell you, ‘I like you as more than a friend’?”

“ ‘Cor, you want an old lady to give away all of her secrets, don’t you?!” She laughed in reply and I continued, “It came out a few years later…after I joined the band.”


	2. The Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elusive fifth Beatle gives a revealing interview about her life before the Hamburg days, joining the band, and all that came in between and after.

**Title**: The Interview  
Rating: PG-13, but R in certain areas later on  
Pairing:Liz/George

Summary: The elusive fifth Beatle gives a revealing interview about her life before the Hamburg days, joining the band, and all that came in between and after.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles and this is about as AU as you can get. I have taken, many, many liberties, namely which that this involves a fictional "fifth" Beatle (who happens to be a female), so history (and certain dates) will very obviously be fudged with. This was a dream that I had for a week -- this wrote itself.

“How did _that_ happen?” And I knew what she was referring to.

“When the lads came back from Hamburg, Stu’d stayed behind. John and Paul had written songs together during the time that Stu was still in the band, so during their jam sessions, it always sounded a bit off without the extra bass, or just guitar in general. Paul’d taken up bass duties, but the majority of the songs they’d written were for two basses and or for two alternating lead or rhythm guitars and a bass. The way that I was brought into the mix is that they were practicing a song and…it just didn’t sound right. I had been playing the guitar for a bit then but wasn’t anywhere near as guitar mad as any of ‘em, so I didn’t feel right telling them that I thought the sound was too heavy and not necessarily in a good way. I was eventually asked and I was straight up. Little did I know that I’d have a guitar shoved into me hands!”

John had taken a drag of his ciggie at my announcement, I remembered. “Will you look at that, Paulie? Little sister telling you that your playing is shit.” John has looked absolutely delighted.

“Come off it, I didn’t say that.”

“Come ‘ead, show us your stuff.” John had shoved his Rickenbacker in my direction, giving me a wide smile all the while. I had wondered in the decades that followed what would have happened if I’d just told him to ‘Sod off and get on with it’ rather than taking the bait like the hot headed fool I could be at times. So I had taken his Rickenbacker, his prized baby, and had started playing the main theme from that arty French film, “Jeux Interdits” that I wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before.

I had assumed at the time that he knew I played music, though it was from composers who’d died almost two hundred years before. I remember that John had looked at me consideringly, thick brows furrowed as he watched me play. Knowing that he’d take the piss, I had stopped half way and had handed the guitar back to him.

“You ain’t too bad, young Liz,” was all he’d said before turning to the lads and motioning for them to continue playing. I hadn’t bothered to try to look at Paul for some sort of reassurance, or even to see if he was furious at me for taking John up on the offer.

A few days later I had been at my instructor’s house and was practicing one of Bach’s Cello Suites. I had considered applying to a musical conservatory in Birmingham or even Manchester, not even wanting to delude myself that I’d be good enough for London. I had played [Sarabande](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3WxnXerG4cM) so many times that my fingers had moved comfortably over the strings, the bow sliding in that delicious movement that I’d loved so much.

I had known my teacher’s home as well as my own and didn’t think much of it when I heard the door to his music room open, expecting one of his affectionate critiques and not the “What sort of scouser is you playing music like that?” My knees had tightened on either side of the cello, and I’d opened my eyes to find both my brother and John in the doorway.

“A talented one,” I had retorted hotly and John had laughed. I hadn’t asked him why he was there, but later on that evening Paul had told me that he’d been asked by John about what I played and not thinking anything of it had told him that I spent most of my afternoons practicing a few hours at my teacher’s house. I would have expected Paul to tell me to stay out of what they were doing, but he hadn’t.

As it turned out, a few weeks later, as they were practicing a few songs they’d be performing at the Cavern later on that night, Paul had yelled at me to come from the kitchen and when I got there, cuppa in hand, had told that they were going to look for a replacement for Stu but  
that in the meantime, I should stick ‘round during rehearsals.

That had been it. They had tried a few fellas out, but it had come down to a conflict of personalities – John could especially be a bit of a snarky wanker who talked out of his arse a lot of the time. In mid-July of ’61, a few days after they’d returned from another visit to Hamburg (and losing another guitarist they’d been trying out, mind you), they’d taken me out for a pint and had laid it out. “Fancy joining the band, young Liz?” John had asked before taking a drag of his cigarette. Even then he was not above letting anyone know that this was his band; he made the final decision about who came and went.

I had finished off my pint before shrugging and adding, “I haven’t the patience to be a typist and I don’t ‘magine any bloke will be makin’ an honest woman out of me anytime soon, so I may as well. I’m not sure who else will put up with you lot of smarmy bastards. You’ve done a fine job of runnin’ them all off, Johnny boy!!” In the back of me head I’d known that if it came down to it that I could take a secretarial course. I’d also been working as a shop assistant at a chemist’s shop an afternoon or two per week since I was fifteen, and had managed to save ‘round 150 quid which I’d originally intended to use to pay for train fare to Manchester in a few months. Obviously that trip hadn’t come about.

“What was it like playing with them at the Cavern for the very first time?” The reporter asked quickly, bringing me out of my revelry.

“Sweaty!” I laughed, remembering how fucking hot the place had been – simply boiling! – bursting at the seams with young kids who were there to watch them play. The Cavern had been a dank, dreary sort of place with shitey ventilation. Walking onto the stage with the lads I remember the hum of the place, and that I’d heard at least five different versions of “What does she think she’s playing at, eh?” while I had slid the strap of one of John’s old guitars over my shoulder.

I remembered how nervous I’d been up there in a pair of Paulie’s old leather trousers and one of Cyn’s snug black turtlenecks. John had let me finish my second pint earlier before he’d turned to me, looking at me with one of his lecherous grin, “Come ‘ead, young Liz. I’ll have Cyn make you look respectable like.” When we had arrived at Mendips he’d told Cyn to “take out her short skirts and tight sweaters” for me to try on, but I had told him to fuck off – if he wanted me to play the guitar in his fucking group I’d dress what I fancied and not be tarted up to look like some dolly bird.

Cynthia had laughed at us and after another five minutes during which I told him that kept telling ‘im “Nicht! I willna be tarted up to look like one of those whores you are so fond of!” to which he had retorted, “We’ll need to distract the audience from your shitey guitar playing” until he had finally let loose a stream of stream of expletives and had told me to get on with it and to not take all night getting ready.

“Do you remember any words of encouragement that they might have had for you before that first performance?” The reporter asked and I saw her move the voice recorder in my direction.

“Errrr, me brother and George both gave me a pat on the back before we went on -- I didn't know what they were expectin', Pete didn't say nothing, not that he would've...just wasn't the talkative type I s'ppose. John did come and tell me to make it howl, and I suppose I did. I imagine he wouldn’t have hesitated to get the fuck off the stage if I was terrible. He was straight up about those things.” I smiled in memory.

“What set did you play?”

“Cannae remember too well. I know that we ripped into ‘Long Tall Sally’ and that was lots o’ fun.” It had been. I still remembered the rush of euphoria I’d felt as George and I had hit the bridge and I watched as the audience seemed to come alive, screaming and dancing along. I remembered the ridiculously big grin on George’s face that night, how we’d both laughed as Pete banged away on the drums, looking like a mad man with his greased black hair and shiny leather jacket.

“I remember watching a taped performance of that song when you guys performed in Washington D.C. during your first visit over. You looked amazing!” I knew that I was too old and had seen a lot in my day to blush anymore, but I did. “Was that the night that George came out and told you that he had feelings for you?”

I quirked an eyebrow that I knew was very, very similar to my famous older sibling’s own. “It was a while yet.” And it had been months before anything like that came up between us, or the thought even crossed either of our heads that either of us might possibly think of each other as more than just…mates. The thing with George and I was that we’d become mates in Hamburg. He was the one who had first suggested that I should play alternating lead and rhythm guitar with either he or John while Paul manned the bass duties. All I’d thought of George until those many weeks later was that he probably knew a lot more than he let on at times…and that he did have really lovely dark brown eyes.

“How did it come up?”

I sighed, knowing that I’d agreed to this in the first place, but feeling that there were a lot of pieces to the puzzle and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to give it all away. “It was about a year or so later – not until after we’d signed with Parlophone and pursuing anything with each other would have been a terrible decision.” I laughed, knowing that I probably sounded horribly unromantic and was probably disillusioning Nancy-the-reporter more than she might have anticipated.

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” The reporter exclaimed during my brief pause, I gave her a wide-eyed look before I grinned. “Before you continue – you know that I’m going to keep hounding you about how George came out and confessed his undying love for you --“ I couldn’t help it and burst out laughing, feeling a strange mixture of giddy happiness in my tum. She joined in, “we need to touch on when the group was ‘discovered’ by Brian Epstein. What did all of you think when he approached you and told you that he wanted to be your manager?”

“Err…I think the story goes that after the lads came back from Hamburg, some kid walked into Brian’s shop and was askin’ about the LP they’d made with Tony Sheridan…I think it came out in either September or late October. Regardless, Brian somehow found out that the band that kid was askin’ about wasn’t German, but was actually from the ‘Pool, so he found out about us playing at the Cavern and went to see us.”

I remembered that after one of our packed gigs at the Cavern, that we’d been approached by Brian for the first time. He’d been a very polished looking guy, wearing a suit, and definitely looking out of place filled with us common working class kids. “You were wonderful,” he’d said to the five of us in greeting, extending a hand towards John and then Paul.

“What do you think this toff’s on about?” George had mumbled to me as we finished off our pints. His shirt had been drenched in sweat, brown hair wet against his skull. I imagined that I’d been soaked as well, but having pulled my jacket off – which John and Paulie had handed my way a few days after joining up – about thirty minutes into the set, I knew I hadn’t been as bad as him. He’d still been wearing his leather jacket for one.

“Dunno. Maybe he’s into mucking ‘round with us common folk. That type doesna look like it crosses to this side of the Mersey much.” I had looked on with amusement as John and Paul exchanged brief grins while talking to that fella. At that time I could’ve already imagined what they’d have to say about the meeting afterwards – never short on words, those two.

“Maybe he’s heard tales of the geetarrr-totin’ bird and he wanted to come and see it with his own eyes! See the disgrace o’ it in person.” George had laughed, giving me one of those wide smiles that were all teeth that would set so many girls’ hearts-a-twitter less than two years later. O’course I’d thought nothing of that then – ten minutes later I was letting meself be chatted up by a lovely blue-eyed lad with heavenly teeth, and he was off to the jigger with a dark-haired dolly with sizeable knockers.

A few weeks later, John had come ‘round to my house and said he needed to talk to both me and Paul, George and Pete had come up behind him with seconds. “Youse remember that bloke who came up to us after our gig a few weeks ago and who keeps coming back…you know that rich Jewish bloke who owns that record shop we always skivv off to? He rang me up at me Aunt Mimi’s house to tell me that he wants to be our manager.”

“What’s he know ‘bout rock-n-roll then?” Paul had asked, even then the more business-minded of the bunch. I knew that though Paul hadn’t said anything then that he hadn’t liked not already knowing about this – if John was the leader of the band, then Paul had seen himself as second in command.

“Dunno, Paulie, but he’s rich and he says that he’d go about shopping us ‘round to a few labels in London. He wants us to all go down to his shop day after tomorrow for a chat.”

“Did you sign with him right away?” Nancy-the-Reporter interrupted my almost non-stop rememberings and brought me back to the present.

“It didn’t make a lot of sense to us at first, I think, why Brian would’ve been so keen to take us on, but he was serious. He asked us to come ‘round to his record shop a few weeks after he saw us perform for the first time and after talking to him a bit, and seeing just how serious he was about us – can you imagine, this really well-off record shop owner tryin’ to convince five scruffs that he thought we had the goods to make it big and that he’d start on London right away – we agreed.” My eyes were wide.

“He came through with it pretty quickly?”

“The good thing about Brian in those early days is that he went for it, you know? Before he came into the picture, the best way to describe what was goin’ on is merry chaos.” Giving us lists had worked miracles!

“And then your image changed.”

“Something like that yeah.” I nodded to her. I still remembered Brian taking Paul, John, George, and Pete to his tailor to have their measurements for their new kits.

“Suits, Liz, he wants us to stand ‘round with bloody suits on. What does he think we are, rent collectors?” John had moaned over a jam butty and tea after they’d come back, Paul had been sitting next to him, pen scratching against his pad of paper, chewing a fingernail as he wrote. I’d gathered then that he was writing something for Dot, but I hadn’t asked.

“Did he say anything about me? He’s not taking me off to a dressmaker tomorrow, is he?” I had asked, horrified at the thought. I didn’t have anything against dresses, mind you, but I’d known that I would look more obvious than I already did if I was up on stage with some sort of fancy dress on while they were done up in suits. I had known that Brian had taken it on himself to clean us up, but I’d joined the group wearing trousers and that’s how I’d remain until I decided otherwise.

John had shrugged and I’d continued, “John, if he makes me wear a dress up there, I’m fucking out of the band. Look, give it to ‘im straight, I’ve seen that look in his eye, so you’d better tell him that I’m a guitarist in this group and I won’t do nothin’ else. If you lot have to wear bloody suits, then I should be kitted out as well – I ain’t no Doris Day, alright.” John and my brother had exchanged side-long glances before breaking into a fit of giggles.

“With a mouth like yours, no one’ll confuse you for Doris, Macca Jr.” John had retorted.

“That and that your looking like a skinny dark-haired lad from the back.” Paul had cut in with a laugh, waggling his eyebrows at me as he reached over for my unfinished cup of tea and drank it down before I could complain about it.

“Oh bugger off, angel-face. But seriously John, if you don’t let him know that I’m not going to get dolled up in big poofy dresses on stage, I’ll be done with you lot for good – ‘cept for you Paulie, I’d never hear the end o’ it from Dad!”

“He’d get over it.” Paul had laughed at me and started reaching for the remaining half of jam butty on my plate until I’d swatted the back of his hand with the spoon I’d been holding. “Hey!” he’d exclaimed as he rubbed his red knuckles.

“Keep yer mitts to yourself!”

I had been grateful that I hadn’t had to have a talk with Brian about the dress situation then, because the next day I’d made my first visit ever to the inside of a tailor’s shop and was measured for what would be my first suit – or something like that.

“So Brian’s taken you guys on, he’s cleaned your image up a bit, and then he makes a few connections with record labels in London, and then what?”

I knew that it would continue coming back to it, so it might make the rest of this easier if I was honest about. “As you’ve probably heard, we’d originally auditioned for Decca on New Years’ Eve, but had been passed over –“

“They must’ve considered that the biggest mistake they ever made, passing the group over!”

I shrugged, remembering the audition. I hadn’t been ‘round when the lads had recorded with Tony Sheridan in Germany, so it’d been my first time ever in a studio. We’d left Liverpool on New Year’s Eve and spent that night in Trafalgar Square. When we’d arrived at the Decca offices, I’d seen the look of discomfort on the producer’s face at the sight of me, and I knew that it probably wasn’t going to go to well. I’d come across a recording of our audition, and had been surprised by how good we’d sounded – though as it turned up, we were passed over by that label.

“It happens that way sometimes, I gather,” I said, hoping I sounded polite about it. No use in rubbing salt on old wounds. “Then a few months later we auditioned at EMI for George Martin, and that was it.”

“What did you think of George Martin the first time you met him?”

I paused for a minute or so as I thought about our long-standing producer, the man who’d been there since the first album until present day with the projects that were still continuing to come up with our music. “I know when we met him that the lads didn’t really know what to think of him, but I liked him alright. He reminded me a lot of my music teacher from back home in the Pool.”

“How so?”

“Well he’s a classically trained musician first o’ all; I think that’s what I liked about him. I felt comfortable talkin’ to him about music and playin’ in front of him – he knew what he doing is all I have to say about it. He’s a lovely fella besides that, he’s a really decent sort.” I was reminded of our first proper recording session with him when he’d asked me about my fingering technique – he’d told me later on that he’d known on the spot that I was a trained musician just based on that. The lads hadn’t really known how to responded to him at first, but I’d admired him quite a lot.

“You mentioned that it was around this time that George finally confessed his undying love for you…” The reporter prompted with a smile. She was relentless, that was for sure. I imagined that that was some sort of job requirement for magazine writers: dead pushy.

“Aye, it was ‘round then. A few weeks after we’d signed with EMI, George came ‘round to me house. I was making tea in the kitchen,” I grinned because that was usually the case with George, showing up around tea time, “and he sort of just came out with ‘Liz, would you fancy us giving it a go?’ and though I hadn’t known right away what he meant, I remember the look on his face. He wasna talking about playing a new chord or changing the riffs in a song, he meant us, me ‘n him. I told him no.”

To this day I’d remember how he’d just come out with it, really nervous like. I remembered that I’d stood there, kettle in hand for at least a minute before I’d told ‘im, “Don’t say that George. You know I think the world o’ you, but don’t tell me tha’.” I didn’t want to tell the reporter that the way he’d looked at me after I said that had felt like he’d slit me from nose to gullet and my guts were spewing all over the floor. If I’d been a different type of girl, the kind of girl who was good at talking about her feelings I’d have told him that I was sorry, because I was, but I wasn’t that type of girl and he knew it. ‘Sides, knowing meself then, if I’d said anything more, it would’ve been something along the lines of _‘Fuckin’ hell, George. What’s wrong wi’ you mate, wantin’ to latch on to the first girl who hasna looked at you googly-eyed since we’ve been at the Cavern?! Don’t ya better than tha’?!_

That’d been one of those things that had come about being ‘round these blokes day in and out for the past few months, taking on some of their ways. Good and bad, seemed like.

George had shrugged a bit and gave me a bit of a wee smile before telling me, “Alright then. Can I has a cuppa, please?” acting as if what he’d said had been no more important than about us trying a song in a different key. I’d gone along with it, because there was nothing else I would’ve thought of doing. But I still remembered the look in his eye just before he’d done what any of us would’ve done – I’d only seen that look once before and it made me uncomfortable to think of it: Mike’s wounded look when he’d found out that our Mum was dead and wasn’t coming back ever again.

I gave a shake of discomfort thinking ‘bout that. I looked evenly at the reporter who sat across from me, the same look of curiosity and calm like before, but this time there was more curiosity there than calm.

“Did you have no clue? You were together a lot…did the thought never cross your mind that maybe in the time that you’d all spent together that he might feel something like that for you?” I saw the reporter tap the top of her voice recorder with her finger.

I was quiet, giving myself a moment to pause before answering. “No not really. I mean, it wasn’t that the thought hadn’t sort of crossed me mind at some point, but I was too wrapped up in what the band was doing. We’d signed with Parlophone and I knew that we had the goods to make it big – and I couldn’t give that up so I sort of let it go. It really would’ve been a terrible time if we’d taken it further than that.”

“Was it ever awkward between the two of you later on, especially when you were touring the States and as John said in an interview, you would all hit each city you came to really hard? Did all the girls that were around bother you ever?” She leaned forward in her chair.  
“There wasn’t anything I could say about it if it had bothered me; I had told him ‘no’. There were lots of girls in the picture during those days. Lots.” It was the Satyricon that John had described once long ago.

“You say that so…matter-of-factly.”

“When we started touring, it came with it. ‘Twas part of the deal, seems like,” I added with a bit of a wry smile, before I took another drink of tea.

“What do you remember anything about the first time that you came to America in February ’64?” She asked, momentarily veering away from the topic of me and George, but I knew we’d come back to it eventually. It was obviously a topic of interest to her.

“I remember that when we flew into New York and we saw all those fans waiting for us that we didn’t know what was going on. We thought that someone really famous was flying in, you know Elizabeth Taylor or Elvis or something. None of us had a clue that all those kids waiting out there were for us. It was kind of mind-blowing!”

I remembered that chilly overcast grey day. We’d flown out of London very early that morning, excited that we we’d be performing in New York, on the Ed Sullivan show of things! I remembered how bloody chuffed we’d all been when Brian had let us know about our invitation, and that feeling had been nothing like what we’d all experienced when we’d gotten off that flight.

“Do you think I might be able to sag off for a few hours to do a little sightseeing?” I had asked out when we were told that we should be arriving at the airport in ten minutes.

“You may as well, luv. There’s no telling if we’ll ever come back. Haven’t you ‘eard that that we’re just a passing fad?” Ringo’d answered from across me with a grin. I knew that he’d believed it then. From what George, who’d been the only one of us to ever go to the States until then, had faithfully reported when he’d returned that he’d been unable to find the record that we’d made with Tony Sherman.

“Where do you wanna be off to, young Liz?” John had asked, leaning back against Cyn’s shoulder.

“I’d fancy seeing the New York Philarmonic while we’re here. Do you think we might be able to get tickets?” I had asked, immediately looking around to find Brian and tell him to arrange for some. Ringo had been right, there was no telling if we’d ever come back and I wanted to take advantage of being here, even if I had to sneak out of the hotel to do it! Though at the time I hadn’t anticipated that being too much of a problem.  
  
“’Cor, you and your bleeding hoity toity music. You’re in a fuckin’ rock and roll band and you want to be off to hob knob with the toffs.” John had shaken his head in fake dismay.

“Is that jealousy I hear in your voice, mate?” I had fired back quickly.

“Not bloody likely.” John had laughed before giving Cyn a kiss on her cheek. I remembered how nice she'd looked and I'd told her so.

“That’s not what you said when you thought you were going to be beheaded for telling them toffs to ‘rattle their jewelry’ at the command performance, Johnny Boy.” That had brought chortles of laughter from Paul and George who had been engaged in a game of Texas Hold ‘Em with Mal and Neil.

“Bloody hell, look out the window, Liz! Do you reckon the Queen flew in as well?” George had called over his shoulder a bit later after we’d descended onto the airport.

“S’not the Queen, son, the crowd’s too young – unless Bonny Prince Charlie flew in and all those birds are auditioning to be his ball and chain.” John had quipped as he too looked out the window onto what seemed to be thousands of girls.

It had been then that Brian had come out of the cockpit where he’d gone off to before we’d landed, and he’d taken one look at us, a milieu of scruffs who had been cleaned up to look nice (I still remembered the look of disbelief that had settled on Brian’s face when I’d shown up at Heathrow in my fitted tweed trousers, white tuxedo shirt and my favourite suit jacket which I’d had specially tailored for me on Saville Row, and told him that if I was expected to fly across the Atlantic, that I would be comfortable) and had exclaimed, “Prepare yourself lads,” I had grown used to being addressed along with the other lads, “all those kids you see outside are waiting for you!”

“What?!”

“Are you having us on, Eppy?”

“They just radioed the pilot to let him know what was going on and to tell him that extra security had been called for.”

When we’d bailed out of that plane, carry-ons in hand, we had been greeted with the deafening roar of what seemed to be a hundred screaming girls. “Who’d have thought that young Mary Elizabeth Macca would be on the receiving end of a thousand screaming birds?” John had laughed as we’d headed down the tarmac. I still remembered to this day the way he’d chortled when he found out that I shared a named with his Aunt Mimi and had gone ‘round calling me ‘Mimi the Second’ until I threatened to ask her to come on tour as my chaperone, which my Dad, bless him hadn't been too fussed over. Trusted me blindly he did.

“Sod off John, you know that this is all for youse and Paulie – George, Ringo and I aren’t the singers here! I just stand in the back and play chords that you you’re too shite to play.” I retorted with a grin as we’d gone through the throng of screaming girls and towards the press conference that awaited.

Later that night, after charming the pants off those reporters, we’d gone out for a taste of New York nightlife. Everyone who was anyone in town had wanted to meet us and we’d had a fab time all ‘round. I’d danced the night the night away with what seemed like an entire army of young guys, as well as with Ringo (he was a terrific dancer), Paul (who’d gotten over his mortification of dancing with his sister after the second time I’d dragged him up), John who had laughingly shown everyone ‘round Cyn’s wedding ring if they came to ask her for a dance and then proceeded to leer at me in his usual dirty old man way and told me that I should wear miniskirts more often when he had his turn, and then George who’d held me lightly and made me laugh. We’d ended the night blitzed out of our minds and high on life.

If we’d arrived to America a bit famous, after playing Sullivan those three dates, and shaking their moptops into the hearts of a hundred thousand young girls, we’d left fucking demigods. There was no one that could touch us when we went back to England. I know I sound bloody big-headed about it, but it was true!

“Did any of you have any idea that it was going to blow up the way that it did?”

“Not at all. Aye, we pissed around and talked a lot of shit, especially John. We knew that we were good, but there was no way of knowing that we’d go from being somewhat famous in Europe to being almost world-famous overnight. No one was prepared for it.”

“Were you at all prepared for the level of attention that you received during that first visit for being the only female in an otherwise all-male rock group? Until you, any females in the music business tended to either be vocalists or involved in the classical world in some regards.”

I shook my head. “There was a bit of it in England, definitely. I remember that in those early interviews that I tended to get a lot of questions about whether I thought I’d give up music once I ‘settled down’ and got married or found a nice guy. I remember being especially irritated by the fact that none of the others got those sorts of questions, but I did my best to be polite about it. After those first few months and a few pretty horrid magazine interview I made up me mind that I wouldn’t bother with too many interviews, especially if all I was to be asked was what I liked to cook or if I had any tips on how to manage a household or something like that.”

“And then you somehow became a fashion icon!”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“When you came on the scene, thousands of girls cut their hair like yours, started wearing those black Ray Bans you had during the first visit and began mixing men’s staples into their outfits.”

“The last came from a bit of necessity actually. Travelling on the road for so long, and sometimes being deathly afraid of losing our laundry – did you know that during the first tour of the States that I lost almost every brassiere I owned?! – we had to do the best that we could given the circumstances. I was not above stealing one of the lads shirts if all mine were going to the wash and they made off with more than a pair or two of my socks.” I grinned, remembering that Paul had been the worst of the lot. Family usually was.

“So Beatlemania has taken over the world and the guys are living it up, but what about you? How did becoming so famous affect your life?”

I considered this for a moment before replying. “Well when you’re the age that I was, you just have to be careful of what you get up, I suppose. The lads and I were lucky because most of the time when we hit a city, the police’d been paid off and we could get up to almost anything we wanted to, but there was still that level of caution that we always had to have. It was pretty rough since when we were on tour we were confined to our hotel rooms a lot of time. During the first trip to the states for example, we were barely let out – we were in bleeding New York the first time ‘round and we had to sneak out with the cleaners so we could see some of the city without being bothered too much.”

“It was like living in a fishbowl?”

“Exactly! We made it big but lost being able to walk down the road to buy cigarettes or to even go to the chippy shop without being surrounded by a dozen screaming kids who wanted to touch your clothes or get a bit of your hair. All of us hated it, not being able to go about our daily life without coming across people who wanted something from us, but you just had to deal with it. It was the price we thought we had to pay in the beginning to making it big in the business.”

“The first movie that you and the guys made, _A Hard Day’s Night_, was that kind of what your life was like during those early days?”

I laughed, reminded of the start of the film where John, George and Rings were running towards or Paddington Station, what seemed like a hundred fans hot on their heels. “It was a gross exaggeration of those days, but something like that.”

“Did you enjoy making the film?”

“Errr, it was a’right. It wasn’t great actin’ or anything like that, it was really just an exaggerated day in our hypothetical lives.” Remembering me and Paul in our fogey get ups brought a smile to my face. That and the old fella playing our grandfather taking it on hisself to call me his “naughty granddaughter” whenever the mood had hit him.

“Were the characters exaggerated version of each of you, do you think?”

“Yes and no. The fella who wrote the script for the film had only spent a few days with us, to I guess get an idea for what sort of people we were, but you know, it would’ve been impossible for him to know us. I s’ppose the way to look at it is that we all sort of had our individual roles to play in the group.” I concluded, remembering the light-hearted mother hen type person I was in the film. I assumed that Alun Owen had taken my very laissez-faire approach to what the others got up as light-heartedness and my telling whoever was ‘round to put the kettle on as being very mum-like.  
  
“So looking back to when all of this was taking place, making that film, and then making Help a year later, how would you describe yourself during those days? What sort of person was ‘Liz McCartney’, the fifth Beatle?”

“Technically I am the fourth and Ringo’s the fifth.” I knew there was a twinkle in my eye when I said this; that had been one of those sibling-like contention points that had plagued my friendship with Richie since he’d been taken on to replace Pete. “I remember,” I crossed a leg over my knee and I tugged the sides of my sweater tightly together, rubbing the soft cashmere with the roughened pads of my thumbs (an inevitable by-product of playing various string instruments since I was knee high to a grasshopper), “the interview that John had with the editor of this magazine after the band broke up. He said that The Beatles were the biggest bastards in the world, and I think that’s a fairly accurate description of all of us to some regard. In those days when we hit it big, I knew that we were good, and I knew that I was a pretty good guitarist, though I was a better cellist. I wouldn’t say that I was a terribly nice person, because I wasn’t.”

“Why do you believe that you weren’t a very nice person during those days?”

“It wasn’t that I was horrible to people or anything; I had manners, but I wasn’t too good at putting up with bullshit like Paul was. That’s probably why I was one of the quieter ones during interviews, and why I guess I can find thinking about the image that was portrayed of me in the films was right amusin'; I knew that I’d leave during the middle of an interview if I felt I was being insulted, and the boys knew it.”

I still remembered the interview where I’d called the interviewer a wanker when he asked me straight up if I could make a pot roast as well as I played music. It hadn’t been the first time I’d been asked something like that, but the cheek of it had made me fly off my rocker. Knowing that whatever good humour I’ve might’ve had about it was running thin, Paul had cut in with a laugh for my benefit, “Liz is too shy and retirin’ to admit that she makes a mean pot roast, but aye, our girl’s quite good. Her jam butties are ace though!”

“Did it ever come to that?” The reporter asked with an amused chuckle.

“No, but I came close. Having other people there helped to deflect things off of me for a bit.” I was reminded of those dozens of interviews where I’d be exchanging funny sidelong looks with either Ringo or George, completely aware of how mad everything really was.

“So the relationship between all of you was good?”

“Oh yeah, it was great. I guess that’s just a naturally occurring thing when you’re working with the same people; we either took our instruments to the back of another’s heads, or we become good mates.” I was reminded of how it’d been with each of ‘em during those days…breaking into a fit of giggles with John while we’d been filming Help because we were both completely stoned and couldn’t remember our lines; having lunch with Ringo, Mo and baby Zak on warm Sunday afternoons at their house outside London and laughing like a loon when Rings would start flying his boy around in the air like he was an airplane; flying up to Liverpool with Paul to meet our Dad’s new fiancée Ang and her little girl Ruth, and Paul not raising a fuss when I cuddled up next to him to keep warm because his ability to radiate body heat had always been somethin’ I had envied of him from the time we were young and he, me, and Mike having to bundle up in one bed to keep warm in the winter if the radiator was out, with him in the middle; spending hours playing music with George while he’d be strumming away on an old acoustic and seeing as my Stradivarius was too heavy and too precious to mine heart to lug around, I’d join in on the violin if I was of mind.

Despite the shit that came years later, we’d enjoyed each other a lot in those years. I don’t think any of us could’ve denied that, even John at the height of his apathy towards me brother.

“To all of your fans’ benefit, I’m sure!” Nancy-the-reporter added. As if on cue, I heard the hum of the voice recorder stop, and then came the click of the tape inside. She’s been prepared and quickly replaced it with a new one. I had more tea while I waited. “In the close friendship that existed between the five of you, did you ever get the impression that the guys treated you differently than they did each other, other than the obvious thing about you being a woman?”

I think I surprised her when I shook my head. “No, not really. When I joined the band, with John for example, I was no longer one of those girls they could seriously think about or talk about in a sexual way. Yeah you’ll see old concert footage after we made it of John taking the mickey of me during a performance for hanging ‘round the back with Ringo, but by joining up I became what I can only call a lad with tits. There was no reason for him or for the others to watch their gobs with one of their own band mates, even if I was a girl.”

“Was that how it was with George, too? Was no romantic tension between you and George in those early days after the topic had come up and the band was making it big all over the world?” There it was again, the great pink elephant. One of ‘em more like it.

“It wasn’t something we talked about.” That was the simplest way to put it and the truest. He hadn’t brought it up again during those days, and it would’ve been the last thing he probably would’ve expected from me. Even then we’d understood each other well.

“But it was there?” She continued.

I sighed. “If what you’re asking is if there were feelings involved, then aye, there were feelings involved.” I admitted finally. “As I said, we were fond of each other, but when he asked that first time, the timing was shite. When I joined the band, I was serious about it. I’m a musician through and through; I’d wanted to be a cellist from the time I was seven and then somehow began playing the guitar and whatever other instruments were needed in a rock group. I wasn’t too fussed with the idea of stopping any of that, let alone for a bloke.” If the reporter had needed any further convincing that I’d never been a syrupy sweet young girl, I knew that I’d just cemented that for her.

“Do you think if you had taken George up on the offer in ’62 that you would have there as a member when the band took off?”

I stopped to consider this for a moment, having discussed that very thing with George when we finally had decided to give into what had appeared to be inevitable and then every few years during our marriage. “Probably not. There was no way it could have worked during those first few years – it could be a wee bit heavy at times being Paul’s younger sister, let alone, being Paul’s younger sister and then George’s girlfriend or something.”

“Like a conflict of interest?”

“I have to be confident enough in my talent as a musician to know that if I’d been terrible that I wouldn’t have been there when Brian saw us the first time or when he signed us, especially after he fired Pete and we replaced him with Ringo. No matter how great I might have been, if I’d taken up with George, there is no way in hell that I would not have been kicked out of the band; John wouldn’t have had it for one, and I doubt that Paul or Ringo would have been too keen on it either.”

“Do you think that it would’ve been like if John or Ringo had brought their wives on tour?”

“Partly, I guess. Being involved with each other would have brought domesticity too close to home for ‘em. You have to understand, from the time we began to get big in England and then it spreading throughout Europe, and then onto coming to America for the first time until the last tour, the five of us were together a lot. When we weren’t touring, we were recording, and then making films. If George and I had started anything it would have added a lot of unnecessary pressure. ’62 to ’66 were a whirlwind; I can’t really remember too many specific dates during those years because so fucking much was going on.”

“Since you had decided to not pursue anything with George then, were there any special guys in your life?”

“Err, aye, there were a few, but not many that I feel comfortable divulging!” I chuckled, remembering the men that I’d had in my life during those early years. I remembered my first date with Brian Jones from the Stones – he really had been a lovely guy but I was grateful that I’d cut things off with him before the drugs took over. It would have been devastating for me to have been Anita when he’d died. I remembered the sweet pianist from the Royal Philharmonic that I’d dated for a few months while we were making _Rubber Soul_. He’d fancied me rotten but while I’d liked him very much and had enjoyed the hours we’d spent snogging at his flat, I was I guess a little too good at not taking what we had too seriously. That had been one of the things he’d yelled at me as he’d stormed out of my flat when we finally called it quits – _Why can’t you be a normal bird, eh?_

I would not tell this reporter about the men that I’d slept with in the early years after bumming a few months’ worth or birth control from Cyn, how I’d gotten off with lads who I’d liked but had not wanted anything from other than a few laughs and a relatively easy time of it. I would not tell her that in ‘65 during one of the many parties that the lads and I would have in our suite in whatever hotel we were in while we were on tour, that I had been in the process of a pleasurable snogging session with a boy whose name I don’t remember and how I’d caught George’s eye from across the room.

A blonde bird had been perched on his lap, pressing kisses along the line of his jaw. I had watched both of his hands tighten on her hips as she kissed the side of his neck. I wouldn’t tell this reporter that my heart had given a weird tug as I watched this, telling myself that I should know better than to give a fuck about what George was doing, or who he was doing it with. We were mates was all, had fallen back into the comfortable pattern of being friends and band mates who could sit around playing music together for hours on end, have a laugh, a drink, a dance, a joint when we got into pot together and whatnot, within a few weeks of his bring it up years ago; I also knew that he’d gotten off with many, many girls along the way.

That time though, I had felt his eyes burn a hole through my forehead and I knew that I wasn’t makin’ anything up when I saw the frown that came over his face and how his eyebrows furrowed. I don’t know how long George and I’d looked at each other but he was the one to break eye contact and without looking at me again, moved the girl on his lap off of him before he’d stood, pulled her up and swung an arm over her shoulder and probably led her off to another room to get a blow job.

George and I wouldn’t talk about what happened that night for almost a year. As expected, the next day we went along like normal, even were able to rip into songs together like we usually did during our performances, volleying different chord patterns while either John and Paul took the lead vocal. His smile had been feigned, not as easy as it usually was, later when I’d taken my violin from one of the stage hands – Paul had been due to perform 'Yesterday' and as the only other person performing during it, the others had kipped off for a cigarette or two.

“There weren’t any juicy affairs that you’d like to tell us about?” She was a right cheeky dolly, this one was. I smiled at the reporter, and you guessed it, had more tea. Quite a tea drinker I am, I drink it by the barrel seems like.

“A woman my age has her memories to keep her company in her old age.” I didn’t know how my four kids would react to hearing all about their mother’s escapades during the sixties. Knowing that their Dad and I had smoked enough pot in the early days to equal Cuba’s GNP had been enough for them. “But yes, in answer to your question, there were a few affairs, but nothing serious. I wouldn’t have allowed it then, I think. I know it sounds unromantic, but at the end of the day, I don’t regret tellin’ George that I’d rather not when he first brought it up, because being the people that we both were when it first came up, it would have imploded horribly. The music we were making would’ve suffered, and when I was nineteen and twenty, nothing was more important to me than making music. The last thing I wanted was to fall in love, set up house, have babies. I don’t think George held it against me really.”  
I knew that the reporter had wanted an opening to return to the topic of my beginnings with George and so I’d given it to her because I knew that we’d keep going in circles otherwise. “So when did things finally change with you both?”

I answered after a minute and more tea, “A month before the end of our last American tour. The tour in ’66 was horrible,” my eyes shut tightly as I gave a quick shake of my head in frustration, “we were miserable for most of it. If it had been up to us, we wouldna done it, straight up, but there was a lot of money tied up in the shows and so our hands were tied. As the other lads have said in interviews over the past few decades, the enjoyment of it was gone for the most part. We couldn’t perform barely any of _Revolver_ on stage, we’d been using a lot more sophisticated stuff than on our previous LPs, and even if we had been able to, there was no reason for it – our concerts were just throngs of screaming girls – which you can imagine I had to get used to. It’s so weird to have what feels like a million young girls screaming every single time you, a girl, come on stage. There’d been that entire Philippines thing and earlier that summer, the entire thing with John and that “bigger than Jesus” nonsense happened and it just made it even more unbearable. We were fed up, simple as that.

I think we were spending a few days in New York before heading west to L.A. I remember that I was reading the paper when George came up and sat next to me and just looked at me and said, ‘Liz, I think it’s time that we give us a go. No reason not to anymore’. I’d ended a brief fling with an old boyfriend a few weeks prior and wasn’t in a rush to find anyone else, but any reluctance that I might’ve had at the beginning, wasn’t valid anymore.”

“You were in love with him.” The reporter said quietly, finally getting out of me what I knew she’d wanted all along.

I nodded, having difficulty putting together a proper response that could convey what I was truly feeling. I remembered how nice I’d thought he had looked that morning; he’d been wearing an old pair of blue jeans and an Indian type caftan that he’d gotten as a gift from Ravi Shankar. When he’d sat next to me on the sofa, I had thought nothing of it, quickly skimming the day’s edition of the _London Times_ since I wanted to keep up with news from back home. I’d been a bit taken aback when I’d looked up and caught him looking at me, a soft sort of tender look in his eyes that had made the blood run like molten honey through my veins. It wasn’t the sort of look that I had thought I’d ever see in his eyes, and then he’d laid it out: quickly and matter-of-factly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Ever since I had seen him again during my first visit to Hamburg, I’d thought that he had such lovely eyes, ‘tho they could be unnerving at times. Allow us the chance to be a waffly old woman here. Anyone who has ever based their impression of George off of those two films we made could never fully appreciate the life that simmered in him. True, he could be silly and good-natured, giving as good as he got, but he when he looked at you, really looked at you, it made you feel like he could see all the way to your insides and that that was more than ok. That morning I remembered that he’d looked at me that very same way…but still so uncertain of what I’d say to that, and though I knew I was nowhere near as gifted with a glib tongue like Paulie or John thought themselves to be, I’d felt like sunshine was burstin’ to leave everyone of my fingertips and my heart was poundin’ like I’d just run a race. He’d been so shocked when after a brief pause that felt like forever I’d reached over to touch his face and then just kissed him.


	3. The Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elusive fifth Beatle gives a revealing interview about her life before the Hamburg days, joining the band, and all that came in between and after.

**Title:** The Interview  
**Rating:** PG-13, but R in certain areas later on  
**Pairing:**Liz/George

**Summary:** The elusive fifth Beatle gives a revealing interview about her life before the Hamburg days, joining the band, and all that came in between and after.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Beatles and this is about as AU as you can get. I have taken, many, many liberties, namely which that this involves a fictional "fifth" Beatle (who happens to be a female), so history (and certain dates) will very obviously be fudged with. This was a dream that I had for a week -- this wrote itself.

I don’t know exactly how long we kissed, but by the time we had finished, I had been sitting on his lap and was pressed tightly against his chest. His left hand had been wrapped tightly around my hip and the other was at the bottom of my spine, not quite restin' on the top of my bottom. I’d felt the heat of his fingertips through the material of my shirt (which was still tucked into my skirt, mind!) and all the way to my knees. I'd been very, _very_ glad that the others were still asleep so that we were free to sit there together...free to touch.

Those first few days had been heady, and though he was a typical scouser, he’d only held out a few days before he’d told me, straight up as anybody would be with someone they’d been mates with for so long, “I really love you, Liz. I’ve loved you a long, long, long time.” We’d been taking a walk along the beach by Brian Wilson’s house; the Beach Boys had invited us to a barbeque, and the atmosphere was lively with loud music and famous and non-famous friends just pissing ‘round, having a brilliant time of it. The day had been bright and sunny, typical for California, but it made what George said all that lovelier.

For a girl who had prided herself on detached flings and a no-nonsense approach to dating – it would have been impossible to have the rose coloured lenses of most women when it came to romance; I was around lads who’d no qualms in having their women at home while they fucked around when we were on tour – I’d felt a warmth in my heart that I knew wasn’t indigestion, and told him that I did too. George had smiled one of those beautiful smiles that spread over the entire bottom half of his face (all four of our kids had gotten that from him, though the McCartney eyebrows were on three of ‘em) and taking my hands in his, had started circling and twirling me around the beach, our bare toes digging into the wet sad. All the while he’d been softly singing in that warm voice of his, _“I feel good in a special way / I’m in love and it’s a sunny day.”_

In the years that followed, once we’d had our babes and would go on holiday to one of our houses in Hawaii or on the Virgin Islands, the kids were used to the sight of their Mum and Dad taking off for the beach within hours of arriving. They’d thought nothing was unusual about the fact that they might see us start twirling around on the beach while George’d start singing and I’d giggle along like a loon.

It had been something that we’d done up until the summer before he died, and I knew that no matter how long I lived, that it would be one of my favourite memories of us. It was love.

“By then I knew that I was,” I answered the reporter’s question, snapping myself out of my memories for a moment, “so I said ‘yes’ that time and that was that.”

“How did the others respond?” She asked and I was suddenly reminded of Ringo’s look of surprise before giving a me a chuckle and a, “Well played, Lizzy Macca – who knew you had it in you to make off with the last available Beatle _not_ of your blood?!” while I’d curtsied and gave him a cheeky wink, Paul’s look of playful dismay before he’d turned to George and said “Of all the birds in the world why couldn’t you keep your paws off me sister?” and then John’s naughty, “Spare us the cow eyes and mooning over each other in the studio ‘right? And no fucking in lavvy! It’s a public toilet you animals!”

“This comin’ from a randy wanker like you’s a bit rich!” I’d answered giving him a knowing grin which he hmm’d and haw’d over.

“At least clean up after yourselves then? I don’t fancy goin’ to take a piss knownin’ there’s George-juice all over the place!”

“Aww John!”

“Mal shut him up! I just had me breakfast!”

“Sod off, John. You’ve a filthy mind you ‘ave. That’s my sister, you know!”

“We’d made the decision to stop touring after that summer, and as long as George and I weren’t acting like a pair of love-mad teenagers while we were recording or rehearsing, there wasn’t much they could go on about.” I smiled.

“You sure that you’ve only just taken up with one another?” Mo had asked us after the dinner she and Ringo had asked us ‘round to a few nights after we’d returned from America. She’d settled into the sofa next to me.

“What’re you on ‘bout?” I’d asked.

“Youse don’t act like most kids who’ve just started datin’, you keep your ‘ands to yourself for one and aren’t hanging off each other for another!” Mo’d laughed at me.

“ ‘Cor, Mo, you’ve seen me with blokes before. I ain’t the type to hang off my fella even if I fancied getting the mickey taken out of me by the lot of smarmy bastards I run ‘round with most of the time.”

“If you break his heart and his playing goes to shite, I’ll hold you personally responsible, Macca Jr,” John had rung to tell me from Spain where he’d gone off to film _How I Won The War_.

“Hold on, hold on there. Why is you so worried about me breakin’ his heart, what about me eh? Sweet as a lamb, I am!”

“Someone’s been tellin’ you tales, girl – probably one of those other blokes you’ve crushed beneath your shiny Beatle boot heels over the years! You’re a tough old girl, though you look like a dolly bird. You should know better than anyone what a delicate constitution old Harry has. Watch that you don’t chew ‘im up and spit ‘im out like you’ve done with all your blokes, ‘right? I need him for the next album!” Wanker, even though he’d been a wanker that made me want to clobber him and would then say something that would set me off like a loon the next.

“How long was it before you decided to get married?”

I sat back in my comfortable chair. “It was pretty quick, few weeks later. We just saw no reason not to, told the others what we wanted to do, and so early one morning in October, we went to Marylebone registry office and got married. Paul and John’s first wife Cyn were our witnesses.”

I remembered how he’d leaned over me in bed one morning a few weeks after we’d flown back to London, and smiled one of those warm smiles that I felt all the way to the bottom of me toes and up. “I think it’s time I make an honest woman out o’ you, Lizzy.”

“What are you suggestin’ Mr. Harrison?” I’d laughed up at him, pushing his hair out his face with my fingers. He’d looked so delicious with the warm sunlight on his shoulders, and had felt so nice too with his chest pressed against my naked breasts. We’d been at it all afternoon, and I’d been sleepy, but so happy. I’d leaned up to kiss a little spot under his jaw that’d just been beggin’ for a kiss, and had felt the scratchiness of a day’s worth of beard on my cheekbone.

“Let’s get married, Liz,” he’d whispered into my ear before kissing the side of my neck, one of his hands had moved over my breast.

I’d been quiet for a minute after he said that, thoughts racing through me head. Despite our behaviour otherwise, me and George had been brought up in old-fashioned homes. Since makin’ it big, we’d started living lives that we coulda only dreamed about years and years ago, and to most common folk, the lives we were livin’, the crowd we ran with, the stuff we got up to in our circle, would be thought of as leadin’ us straight to hell in a handbasket – as if one of us tellin’ them “that we were bigger than Jesus” weren’t enough! It wasna that we were too fussed with being all moral and whatnot, but at the core of it all, I knew that we were still those working class kids from Liverpool with those same working class morals despite doin’ things that mayn’t have gone along with it most of the time.

But to get married…that was a completely different kettle of fish!

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” I’d asked him finally, looking him straight in the eye. “We’re not exactly lightweights here.” My baggage had consisted of a father and two brothers, one of which was a band mate and I wasn’t too sure if George’d thought about also bein’ stuck with Paulie for the rest of his natural life. And George’s mum, bless her, could be right overbearin’ at times even though she did make the most heavenly scones and always made a point of telling me how skinny I looked whenever I ran into her during trips back home.

“I think I’d be willin’ to even take _John_ on as a relation if it meant gettin’ you, Lizzy.” And George had laughed, letting me know that explanations were not necessary!

“Youse must be gettin’ right desperate there, Mr. Harrison if you is even bringing Johnny boy into the equation!” And I’d hugged him so tight to me then, feeling his laughter rumble in the chest pressed tight against mine. It had been a while yet before we’d left his room, more specifically his very, very comfortable bed. We’d celebrated our engagement with beans on toast and a large pot of tea in front of the telly and it had been lovely.

What had made it lovelier still was that while we sat there he told me, “ S’a good thing you said ‘yes’ Liz, or else I’d have a lot of explain to do to your old man. Didn’t take too kindly to my ringin’ him up before he’d even had his morning cuppa to ask ‘bout takin’ youse on as me wife!”

“You didn’t!” I’d exclaimed, looking up at George with wide eyes. Who’d you think I’d got the barrel of tea drinking gene from anyhow? I knew that me Dad wouldna have taken too kindly to being rung up before he’d had his first proper cup of tea in the morning, even if it was to ask for his only daughter’s hand all proper-like, but knowing that George’d gone through the trouble of it had made my heart feel like it’d doubled in size.

“Aye I did, and right willin’ he was to get you off his hands too! I’d only opened me gob to say, ‘Mr. McCartney, I’d like to talk to you ‘bout me and Liz’ before he cut in and told me ‘Five bob’s me last offer, son!’ Funny bloke, your dad.”

I remembered the look of pride that had come over George’s face when he saw me in the dress I’d gotten for the occasion days later. His smile had been so wide, so big, and it’d been all I could do to not smother him with kisses – though I’d restrained meself ‘cos I wasna sure how me brother would handle it, he could be such a squeamish lad at times. Regardless, I’d felt dead chuffed at being so obviously adored by a man I thought was bloody gorgeous and that really did have the loveliest brown eyes.

‘Sides, I would always remember the look of surprise on the magistrate’s face when he saw that both the bride and groom weren’t taking the mickey by using some famous peoples’ names to get married, but were in fact, both Beatles.

“Did things change much after the wedding?” The reporter asked and I couldn’t help but think about the honeymoon we’d had in Italy where George’d surprised me with a trip to a musical conservatory. I remembered how amazin’ I had found it when we’d been shown into a big room where the string section of an orchestra was practicing.

“Mr. Harrison has told us that you are a cellist, signora.” The woman showin’ us ‘round had said to me. I’d looked at George out of the corner of me eye. “Would you like to join them?” She had continued, and though I’d gotten used to the attention that we’d get from people, seeing the same googly-eyed expression on the faces of an entire roomful of musicians who probably played better than I ever would made me a bit uncomfortable, but I’d nodded.

Two young lookin’ fellas had brought round a cello from somewhere in the back, and tho’ I wouldna have gone along with it if I’d thought they were going to raise a fuss about it, I’d done my best to smile good-naturedly to the other cellists who looked at me with the same wide-eyed looks and ignorin’ George’s big smile and waggly eyebrows, I’d sat myself down. I remember that I’d been a wee bit nervous going into it, but when the conductor motioned for them to begin, ignoring the fact that none of them had sheet music, they’d started playing one of Bach’s Cello Suites: the one I’d been playing the first time that John’d heard me play all those years ago. Somehow I’d known that wasn’t a coincidence. My fingers had moved comfortably over the strings as I’d followed along, incapable of keepin’ what I knew was a huge smile off me face.

I’d nodded at the conductor in thanks when it was over, wanting to enjoy it ‘cause I wasn’t sure if I’d ever have the chance to do something like that again. The woman who’d been showing us ‘round had asked me what I’d thought of it. I remember how I’d sighed before telling her, “That was brilliant and what a fantastic instrument, what’s it made of?” I’d missed my Stradivarius so much then.

“I’m not sure, Liz, but it’s yours.” George had said to me, exchanging a sneaky grin with the woman.

“You’re havin’ me on!” I’d laughed, my knees tightening on either side of the magnificent cello in front of me.

“John’ll have me ‘ead for encouragin’ you and your un-scouserlike way, but if it makes you happy, love,” he’d said and ignoring all the Italian kiddies ‘round who probably couldna believe that not one but two Beatles were there – I had wondered how they’d managed to keep it quiet afterwards, probably _threatening to blacklist ‘em from ever performing on a concert stage_ – I’d jumped up, bow in hand, and wrapped me arms ‘round his neck and kissed him soundly. He’d laughed and squeezed me tightly.

“No not really. During the first rehearsal for _Pepper_ I did make a point of telling the lads that I wanted them to carry on like normal, that George and I were musicians first and foremost and that we weren’t going to do anything to jeopardize the band.” I laughed. “And nothing changed much. During the recordings, if I was playing something in the wrong key or whatever, I’d get shit from all of them, George included, and vice versa. In the studio, we were band mates; it was separate from our marriage. Outside of the studio, we were George and Liz Harrison, but in the studio I was still called ‘Macca Jr’ and ‘young Liz’ and getting told off just like the others. ”

“_Sgt. Pepper_ was the first album that you all made as a non-touring band, right?”

“Yes. We were right nervous about it, let me tell you!” And I’d chuckled knowing that was just the tip of the iceburg!

“This has to be solid.” Paul had said to us during that first rehearsal, and though we’d gone about it like we always did, it’d always been in the back of our heads. The album needed to be better than all the other stuff we’d ever made, especially since we knew that our days of performing like trained monkeys in front of a crowd of screaming fans were over.

“I’m not sure how much you’ve kept up with the media in the last few years, but did you know that this magazine ranked _Sgt. Pepper_ the greatest album of all time? That has consistently been the case in poll after poll over the past forty years. Did you go into the recording of that album imagining the impact that it would have?”

I considered this for a moment before replying. “Uhh, not exactly. We knew since we weren’t going to tour anymore that we had to really try and make somethin’ special out of it, you know? We felt freer with _Pepper_ than with any of the previous LPs. I know it would be easy for me to bitch ‘bout the downfalls of how famous we were, but on the flipside, we had the creative freedom to make whatever the hell we wanted. It was unheard of in those days, still is really, for a band to just experiment in the studio, to use studio time to try out different sounds, instruments, arrangements. Because we were so famous – we were the most successful British group out there – we had the luxury of taking our time with it. If you think about it, we recorded our first LP in two weeks and did _Pepper_ in about five months.”

I remembered those days. We’d arrive shortly before 9 pm, long ago having fallen into the pattern of working into the early morning. I’d sit in my chair, it was the one closest to the piano, and before getting on with it, I’d totter over to Paulie, John, or George Martin to get the low down on what we were scheduled to work on that night. When we got down to business, we’d be at it for a few hours, Geoff or one of the other lads that worked with us would bring ‘round a pot of tea during a break, which as you must probably know I was usually fussy ‘bout.

I remembered certain times during those breaks: John or Paul (but usually Paulie) sitting at the piano and tickling bits and pieces of songs they’d been working on; Rings tappin’ along while I ran through the lead guitar section of a song and givin’ me one of those encouraging smiles of his all the while; sitting there watching George, dressed in a flowy white caftan, strummin’ out _Within You and Without You_ in the earliest stages with his eyes tightly closed. There’d I’d be, working on chord patterns on my guitar, or pluckin’ away on the cello George’s surprised me with and which the lads had moved into the studio for me as a surprise… just bouncin’ ideas off of all of ‘em. ‘Round one or half past, I’d kip off to the roof with whoever was of mind for a smoke, ‘cos all of us’d known that George Martin wasn’t too keen on us passing ‘round joints or whatever other drugs we’d gotten into while we were in the studio.

It was with that LP that they all began to really encourage me and my very un-scouserlike ways and pushed me to be as creative as I liked in what I was coming up with in the orchestral arrangements I was workin’ on with George Martin. I’d never been terribly big-headed about my abilities as a musician, but it had meant a lot – though I’d never admit it to them mind. The string section of _She’s Leaving Home_ had been the product of few hours’ work with both George Martin and Paul. Ultimately in the end it wasn’t just them feeling freer to experiment with their music, it was me too. _Sgt.Pepper_ is one of my favourite LPs of the ones we made – though I’d been kitted out in a god-awful purple marching band suit on the cover that had been hotter than hell.

“Are there any specific songs that the band worked for that album that you’re fond of?” The reporter continued.

I considered that for a moment. I’d always cracked a grin in interviews I’d see of the other lads later where they’d be asked by some overzealous interviewer about the songs they liked the best – in some way I figured it was like askin’ a parent which of their kids they liked the most. You weren’t supposed to just straight up tell them! I did the same now.

“I‘m quite fond of all the tracks off of it. You’ve got to understand, we were like kiddies in a sweet shop with that LP. It was more than the ‘I love you, you love me’ from our earlier LPs – we really took the entire _recording artist_ thing to our heads with it.” But I smiled at her because I was unable not to when it came to that album; it was one of our finest work, I think. “I s’ppose if you want me to single certain tracks out were worked on then, I really like _Strawberry Fields_, _A Day in the Life_, _She’s Leaving Home_, of course _Within You And Without You_, _Penny Lane_, and _Lovely Rita_ if I am feelin’ especially cheeky!”

The reporter laughed, “More than just a song or two!”

“I’m tellin’ you, lovie, it’s hard to narrow it down.”

“_Strawberry Fields_ wasn’t on that album though –“

“It was released as a single with _Penny Lane_, but it was one of the first songs we worked on when we were recording. I think it’s a terrific example of some of John’s better stuff; I’ll be straight up with you, not all of the stuff we recorded that was written by either he or Paul was the gear, but he was capable of writin’ some really great stuff when it came down to it. _Strawberry Fields_ is an amazing track, and _A Day in the Life_ is one of the best songs ever written – it’s bloody brilliant in every way. Maybe I’ve overstatin’ it, maybe I’m just bein’ bloody biased because I was in the same band, but a lot of the stuff that John wrote before and after can’t compare to _Day In the Life_.”

I’d worked too long with John and Paul to have ‘em on the pedestal that many did. I’d acknowledged since the very beginning that, overlookin’ the fact that I’d run ‘round in dirty nappies with Paulie and that I’d seen John at his most vile worst when he could be a right bastard and usually ended in me wondering ‘bout the difference between those fancy legal words ‘premeditated murder’ and ‘manslaughter’, they were great musicians, but I wasn’t blind to their weaknesses when it came to music, just as I figured they were more than aware of mine.

But then one of ‘em would mention a song they’d been workin’ on and it would make knowing ‘bout those weaknesses absolutely fucking unimportant. That’s how it’d been the first time John’d played _A Day in the Life_ for us; I’d been incapable of thinking anything more to myself than ‘Bloody hell, Liz.’ Whenever the thought’d cross your mind that John couldn’t possibly be as bleeding special as it was said he was, he’d pull something like that song out on you, and it would make your doubts shut their big fat gobs.

“Did you play the harp on _She’s Leaving Home_?” The reporter asked. I shook my head.

“No I played the cello, but I helped to arrange the strings with George Martin, which was nice because I was able to really learn about how to make sections like that work. I never stopped playin’ the guitar on the album—” The title track and the reprise support that I think “but they were encouragin’ me to add some cello here and a bit of violin there, which I thought at the time was really great. Not too many bands were doin’ that sort of stuff, so that reaffirmed my thought that our creativity was probably at its peak with that LP.”

“Did you contribute any tracks to the album? Were there any Elizabeth McCartney tracks added under the psuedonym _Lennon/McCartney_?” She chuckled, leaning towards me.

“Not really, I sort of just added my bits here and there. I can’t write songs, you see!” I grinned at the almost disbelieving look she was sending my way. “Really, I’m not havin’ you on, I can’t. This isna fake modesty! I can do more of the instrumental stuff, but I’m shit when it comes to words – just can’t do it.”

“If you had though, would your other band mates have been receptive do you think?”

“I’m not sure, really." I said, hearing the wistful tone in my voice. "For the most part I was happy to just do my bit, make our music, and bounce ideas off the lads.” I sighed before I went on. “George had a bit of a time with it though, I don’t think John or Paul were ever willing to extend their club.”

“Did anyone other than George play on his only song on that album?”

“Oh no,” I laughed, “George was possessive of his songs when he got them! He brought in some Indian musicians and went with it.” I remembered George’s even look when he’d told me that he wanted to go alone on that track – I hadn’t raised a fuss because I’d known it was important to him. I’d really enjoyed watching him play it though, his hands moving up the dandi and over the frets. Unlike the others I’d sat in for all the required takes to get it down because I wanted that for him and because it’d made me happy to see the ease and peace that took over him with it. I wasn’t about to tell this reporter that in the times I’d heard the song since his passing, hearing him sing, “And to see that you’re only really small. And life flows on within you and without you” filled me with a sense of calm – because that’s what it’d done for him.

I wouldn’t make this more melodramatic than this ought to be.

“Did George ever express any sort of resentment to you around this time over the difficulty that he had getting his songs onto the albums?” Nancy-the-reporter leaned back in her chair, giving me one of those searchin’ sort of looks I’d been on the receiving end of a lot during this interview.

I figured that she’d gotten used to the bit of silence on my part that came after some of her questions, because she waited patiently for me to go on with it, breaking eye contact with me only just before it started gettin’ a wee bit uncomfortable. “He didn’t sit ‘round boo-hooin’ about it or anything, he wasn’t the kind of guy to do that. It wouldn’t have been necessary though, at the time we all just went with it. With the five of us it was kind of established that John and Paul were the _songwriters._” I wasn’t able to keep the bit of a teasin’ tone that came into me voice, remembering all the times that I’d start in on either of ‘em if I thought the entire _Britain’s best songwriting duo of the past two decades_ thing was gettin’ to their heads.

“May I tighten the strings on me guitar please may I sir???? I dun wanna affect the harmoniousnessity of your music as stated in the _Times_ on 20th October of this year of our Lord our savior amen sir!” I’d asked John one day when he was bein’ a right pain in the arse about Ringo’s playing during a take, giving him the same shit-eating grin he seemed to forever sending my way.

“Mind it’s only half a turn or else it’ll be off to the cellar with youse.” He’d answered without missing a beat, but he’d lightened up considerably after that and I hadn’t needed to worry about how I’d go about explainin’ to Cyn just how he’d managed to get his head stuck in one of Rings’s drum kits or a stick somewhere the sun didn’t shine!

“I knew it got to George but bein’ so used to it, he didn’t push it most of the time. It became more and more of a problem as time went on though, but it hadn’t yet gotten to the point where whatever resentment he may’ve felt about it became animosity.”I concluded, and was quiet once again, waiting for her next question.

“Even with that though, relationships between all of you continued to be good?”

“Oh aye, that was the change. I think the way its been put by the guys is that in those days if there was a problem or whatnot, it was with the outside world, but not with one another, you know? It would’ve been abnormal if we’d always gotten along right as rain and didn’t a row now and then.” I laughed. “I once heard George describe it like a marriage – there was nothin’ like an argument here and there to keep things interestin’! And even with all of that, we were still able to go ‘round telling the world that it was all ‘bout peace and luv – being the summer of Love and all.”

“And then you told the world ‘All You need is love’!” She laughed and I joined in, long ago havin’ acknowledged the irony of it after all these years.

“Well it was in those days, wasn’t it?” I know that I’d told her earlier that ’64 to ’66 were a blur, but I shoulda probably extended it ‘til 1968.

“I remember watching a tape of the performance the band did on _One World_, it was fantastic! Did you or the others imagine that millions upon millions of people would be watching you record the song live?”

“When we were asked to do it, we’d been told it would be seen simultaneously by millions of people but you know,” I chuckled, “hearing ‘bout it is quite different than actually doin’ it. We’d performed sold out shows for years, but even then, it was nothin’ like knowin’ in the back of your head ‘Bloody hell, people in New Zealand and Canada and Blackpool are all watching me perform at the same time’!”

I remembered that performance; sitting on a stool on on George's left with my headphones on, loose hair pulled over one shoulder, beads around my neck, and a flower tucked behind an ear. I’d opted out of playing either the cello or the violin on it, instead taking rhythm guitar since John would be on lead vocal. There had been an air of excitement in that room, with all those people standing and sitting ‘round us on the floor, and I’d enjoyed it tremendously, cracking a grin when I’d joined Paul and George in singing background vocals, something I’d avoided doing in the past.

Definitely a once in a lifetime sort of thing.

She smiled and then gave a small shake of her head. “You speak so fondly of what was going on with the band during those days, of how much you enjoyed the work that you all did on that album, but is there anything, if you had the chance to do it, that you’d go back and change or even do a little differently during that period?”

“On the album you mean, or in me life in general?”

“Either.” She prompted with a raised eyebrow and I responded in kind.

“Errr… if I could change anything, I’d go back and tell myself to cut back on the grass. We were all smoking a lot of pot in those days. And I’d tell myself to not take myself too seriously; I could be a right drag as times!”I sighed.

“How do you think the drugs affected your music during that time?” She asked me suddenly. “It’s well known that the band was heavily experimenting with LSD during the making of _Sgt. Pepper._ How different do you think the album would’ve been if you hadn’t experimented with drugs during that time?”

“We’d been using something or other since the very beginning, so it wasna anything new. The lads lived off of corn flakes, Prellies, cigarettes, and cheap booze during the Hamburg days. In the beginning, we took speed because it was the only way we could perform for hours on end, and then we got into grass pretty heavily in ’64 and sort of stuck to that for a while until LSD came on the scene. _Sgt. Pepper_ was not the first album we made experimentin’ with LSD, but in part, I think what that album was, other than the concept album it’s called nowadays – is our trying to find a balance in making music that excited us and producing something our fans could appreciate. The album could’ve gone either way even if we hadn’t messed around with LSD, but as it was, we were into it, so it’s hard now to think of what it might’ve been otherwise.”

“What appealed to you about LSD, Liz?”

I considered that for a moment. “It’s completely fake and chemical induced – it’s not real though it feels like it when you’re going through it – but LSD literally makes you sense the world in a new, bonkers kind of way. I’d been questioning a lot of things in the world ‘round that time, I think we all were, and trippin’ on acid just encouraged that. That entire ‘turn off your mind’ thing.”

I remembered the first time I’d ever used it, thankfully not on me own. John had talked about it in the interview years and years ago when he said that the band had been the biggest bastards of ‘em all. I’d been over to dinner at a doctor’s with him, Cyn, and George; Paul and Rings hadn’t come along. I’m not sure what his game had been, but as the story went, the doctor had slipped some LSD into our coffee and I after that, I hadn’t known what the bloody hell was going on.

It had been like going ‘round in some sort of dream, experiencing the world that way. “Alright, Liz?” John had asked me when the four of us’d bailed out of there and were driving away, looking at me behind his dark-lensed specs. In a way, looking at him that time had been like I’d never seen him before in me entire life – when he talked to me, I saw colours and knowing that Cyn would think nothing of it, I reached over and touched his face, and it was like I could smell the texture of his skin with me fingers. “Blech, s’like boiled cabbage it is!” I’d giggled, eyes wide as I leaned me head against Cyn’s shoulder.

He and George had started laughing at me, both starin’ out the window at what seemed like a much brighter and colourful version of the world. They hadn’t told me what they were seeing, but I imagined it was as mad at the craziness going on ‘round me. Cyn hadn’t been so fascinated though, had looked frightened and uncomfortable.

“John, what’s going on?” She had asked, but he hadn’t answered, continuing to look out the window of the moving car. I’d sort of just given her a bit of a one-armed hug, tasting the texture of cotton on my tongue and tried to not stare at the bright yellow sun that had taken the place of her eyes. It had marked the first of many, many times that followed in the next few years that I’d trip on acid.

“You mention that you were questioning a lot of things during that time and that using LSD encouraged that. What sort of things did that entail?”

“Nothin’ too out of this world really, I guess the typical things that everyone questions during some point in their life, you know? Tryin’ to figure out what your place in the world is, what your entire view on life is. The craziness that followed John’s supposed ‘bigger than Jesus’ statement was very eye opening.”

“In what way would you say?”

“Realisin’ that people actually cared about what we thought, you know? If you think about it, if it’d been any normal Joe blow, them sayin’ something like that might get a ‘give your chin a rest, son’ but it wouldna have made people murderous over it. Then again, they weren’t a Beatle.” I said the last bit with every bit of disparagement that I usually held about it.

“You were the biggest band in the world at that point –“

“Exactly!” I laughed, giving a shake of my head. “But think about it, ten – twenty years before, a musician wouldna ‘ave needed to go on a national programme to apologise for their something they said in the interview _months after the fact_.”

“You need to do it John,” Brian had said a few days after we’d gotten word that a magasine had a portion of the quote from an interview John had given to the _London Standard_ splattered over its front page. He’d had a very serious, worried look on his face.

We’d all been hanging ‘round the sitting area of the hotel suite we were in at the time. I’d bummed a bifta off of Ringo and sighed “Give us a light, please.”

“It’s a load of bullshit, Brian. I’m not goin’ to go ‘round apologisin’ for the truth; if they can’t deal with it, then fuck ‘em!” John had been livid, and I’d been fairly irritated on his behalf; I’d kept my comments ‘bout the press and reporters to meself.

“It’s getting out of hand, John. Haven’t you seen what’s been on the telly?! This is more than irate fans breaking an album or two. We’re having a press conference and you need to apologise, retract what you said; say that it was taken out of context.” Brian had told John sternly in a voice that he didn’t use too often, but when he had we’d known he meant business.

“If this is about losing fans, then we’re well rid of ‘em!” George had added loyally, also having taken a cigarette off Rings who should’ve known better than to take a new packet of ciggies out ‘round us.

“I ain’t doin’ it, Eppy.” John had said coldly as if letting us all know that the conversation was over. But he had, and after it was over, it’d been one of the few times I ever saw him in tears over something. Sitting up there with him and the others, what seemed like a hundred cameras flashin’ in front of my eyes had been one of the more uncomfortable things in my entire life. It wouldn’t ever be something that we’d talk about directly. Roundabout, yes, but directly -- no, that wasn't our style seems like.

“Regardless,” I said to the reporter across from me, “that experience really opened my eyes to how much people seemed to care about the stuff coming out of our mouths. We were just kids, but they acted as if we were the spokespeople for an entire generation. That’s a heavy duty, lovie! I had to figure out how to deal with it.”

“How did you decide to deal with it?”

“I guess that I tried to be positive about it, though it was bloody hard ‘round that time. We were just so sick of it. Once we’d stopped touring and were just focusin’ on the music, it became easier to handle, or at least I thought it was easier to handle. I dunno.”

“It must have felt nice on some level though, wouldn’t you agree? Knowing that you were capable of bringin’ up views that others were apparently interested in?”

I emptied my cuppa, but hesitated to make my way back to the kettle. “Yeah sure, I s’ppose so. I think it gave us a false sense of really being able to change the world in some way. I dunno, I guess there was as bit o’ that in everyone. Twas the way o’ the world then – idealism at its best!”

“Wasn’t it around this time that George began to get involved with Indian mysticism?”

I nodded, “Yeah. Like all of us he was lookin’ for answers to life’s questions. I guess on some level, that was the thing with LSD – ‘round that time, many scholarly types like Leary and Aldous Huxley, were toutin’ it as this really fantastic thing that would help us understand life in a way that it’d never been understood before. We all knew that there was something out there, something greater and more powerful than us; whether that was God, or Gita, or Allah, or whatever you want to call it, it existed. George found what he was looking for then, but kept his mind open.”

“And what did you decide?”

“I can’t remember if it was anything important. That’s the thing with LSD, experiencin’ your senses in new ways is nice and all, but after a while you want to be conscious of what you’re doing, you want to stop livin’ in a dream; at least I did.” I’d also gotten a little freaked out by my flashbacks and the occasional bad trip and decided to let it go. I guessed there was no point in referencing the pot-fueled journeys that _Rubber Soul_ and _Help_ had been. Or the occasional tripping that gone on during _Revolver_.

“So there you were Liz, no longer touring, newly married, experimenting with and making music with the guys that you were enthusiastic about, fully involved in a band that many do consider one of the most innovative of all times. Did you ever think that any of the others’ wives or girlfriends resented your role; that you were able to be in the studio and actively involved in the recording process during those days?” She asked, once again changing the topic quickly.

“I’ve never been told anything about it. During the making of that album and in earlier albums, Cyn and Mo would come by the studio in the evenings sometimes, and Jane did too when she wasn’t on location for a film. The three of them were really lovely when George and I first got together and that didn’t change when we got married. I think they all had a private laugh at George Beatle and Liz Beatle getting married; I’m sure a lot of people had that reaction.” I stood and this time helped myself cup of tea before returning to the kitchen table and continued where I’d left off. “You see the thing about it is that recording isn’t always a lot of fun, or a lot of laughs, it’s hard work. We enjoyed it, but it wasn’t easy. The other girls knew if they came to the studio to watch us record that they’d probably spend most of the time hearing us perform the same song over and over and might hear us start ripping into one another. There just wasn’t a lot for them to do while we were recording albums.”

“But that changed didn’t it – when John started bringing Yoko to the studio?” I tensed up and coughed.

“Right.” My voice was quipped even to my ears. Another topic I knew would be coming but I still hadn’t figured how to go about it quite properly.

“What did you think of Yoko when you first met her?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t know what to think of her actually, none of us did. She just showed up one day with John and stayed.”

We’d been back from India a few weeks and were startin’ to work on what would be the White Album when she showed up to the studio one day, this tiny woman with mounds of black hair who looked at John like she’d owned him. If I’d been a proper friend I would’ve rung Cyn about it, but I hadn’t.  
  
“Paul was the one that the media famously said didn’t get on with Yoko when she came on the picture. What was your relationship with her?” I had known that this would be an inevitable question.

“I was polite but I stayed out of it.”

“Were you very close to Cynthia?”

I nodded a bit, “I have known Cynthia since I was seventeen. She’s a lovely person.”

“How did what happened with John and Yoko affect your relationship with Cynthia and Julian?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair and brought my cuppa to my lips. “One of the shittiest things that -any of us did when all of that was going on was try to stay out of it. John was adamant that none of us have anything to do with Cyn after he took up with Yoko, and being the cowards we were, we left it be. No one wanted to get on John’s bad side. George and I still saw Julian and had him ‘round to our house some days, if only to keep him from the ugliness of the divorce and all the shit going on.” I was reminded of the days that he and George would take off to the small lake a kilometer or so from our house in Esher, and would spend all morning and lunchtime fishing, and how they’d bring a few home for dinner.

“ S’only fair that we catch ‘em that you get to clean ‘em, Lizzy!” Julian would laugh up at me, his cheeks flushed from the sun.

“Don’t you know that I’m a famous rock n’ roller, lovie? We’re excused from having to rake out fish guts!” I’d answer, scrunching up me nose to make the most exaggeratingly disgusted face I could while the wee lad would break into a fit of giggles. “Come ‘ead, Jules. Let’s go look at my cars while Liz fries up din din,” and George would settle a hand on his wee shoulders and would lead him out of the kitchen, givin’ me an evil grin all the while.

“How are you and Yoko today?” Nancy-the-reporter asked, bringing me out of yet another memory I’d trailed off to.

“We’re polite, but you know, we’re never going to be great friends. We’re different people, she and I. She’s John’s widow though and out of respect for him I will keep being polite.”

“What’s your relationship with Cynthia and Julian now?”

“It’s lovely, great. I talk to Cyn fairly regularly, same with Julian. I’ve known him since he was a baby and he’s just a very sweet, gentle man. Cyn did a wonderful job with him.”

“Out of curiosity have you read Cynthia’s recent biography about John?”

I nodded. “She sent me a copy a week before it came out to the public and I read it that night.”

“What did you think of it?” I stopped to consider this for a moment, knowing that I needed to phrase things carefully.

“The thing about it is that her story is just one side of the story. I feel for her, you know? I know John wasn’t very good to her towards the end, and he should have been a better to Julian. We all know that John loved Cyn when they were together – he was mad for her in those early days – but he could be a right bastard and would say really nasty things that could make you feel an inch tall. I think one thing she said was very true and that was that he hated conflict and usually dealt with it by going away. I’m not sure what happened in their marriage, but to be honest I’ll say that John really did love her when they were together. Things happen though and the only people who know why a marriage disintegrates are the people in it.”

“Would you consider how the band ended equivalent to the end of a marriage? To a divorce?”

“That’s one way of looking at it I guess.”

“What do you think caused the breakup of The Beatles?” Another inevitable question. I looked down at my watch, seeing it’d taken us almost an hour and a half to get here.

“The others have talked about,” I began after a minute, “the beginning started rollin’ full steam ahead when Brian died. It was a terrible time for us.” Shit that was putting it mildly.


	4. The Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elusive fifth Beatle's interview continued. The part takes place from the death of Brian Epstein onwards.

**Title:** The Interview  
**Rating:** PG-13, bordering on R for language and themes.  
**Pairing:** Liz/George

**Summary:** The elusive fifth Beatle's interview continued. The part takes place from the death of Brian Epstein onwards.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles and this is about as AU as you can get. I have taken, many, many liberties, namely which that this involves a fictional "fifth" Beatle (who happens to be a female), so history (and certain dates) will very obviously be fudged with. This was a dream that I had for a week -- this wrote itself.

**Note**: This is the second to last part. I will post the last Part of this in the next two weeks! Thank you so much to those who have given this a chance!

Brian Epstein had been a constant in our lives since he’d signed us at the end of ’61. He’d taken care of us, kept us on track and though we were all confident that we were a great band, there’s no telling what would’ve come of us if Brian hadn’t intervened. The boys would have continued to have played for whatever pittance we’d be paid and all of us would have been pushed into finding a “career” – I might have ended up a secretary after all! Brian had always been a kind, almost fatherly figure to all of us, and we didn’t hold his being posh and gay against him.

When we’d decided to stop touring we’d known that it would be rough for Brian, but by then we were so fed up with things that it didn’t matter. We’d always known that he could be right temperamental at times and prone to horrid black moods, but at least I’d taken his occasional tantrums with a grain of salt and wasn’t too fussed most of the time – sort of like dealin’ with an overbearing auntie, even if this auntie was a bloke. Little had any of us known that a month after his father’s death that he’d accidentally OD on tranquilizers and leave us alone in the world.

“You were in Wales when you found out about his death?”

“We’d all gone to hear a lecture by the Maharishi when we were told the news. It fell on us like a ton of bricks!” We’d received a phone call from London and were given the news. I still remember that I’d felt like I was doused with a bathtub’s worth of ice cold water. I had been absolutely stunned, feeling every part of my body grow numb. Brian who’d watched over us, fussed over us, was dead. The finality of that had made me shake. When I had looked at George, I’d seen the same pain written on his face that I figured was on mine, and I’d crumpled into a chair. I hadn’t known what to expect when I’d started sobbing guttural wrenching sobs that made my shoulders quiver and skin prickle.

I hadn’t cried that hard in over ten years since my mother had died. I wasn’t sure how long it’d been, but George had crouched in front of me before I could teeter over the side of the chair and had pulled me to him. He’d wrapped his arms tightly around me and when I’d buried my head into the side of his face, I’d felt him press his cheek to my forehead. His moustache had been damp and a minute later, the top of my head wet with his tears, and the collar of his shirt was wet with mine.

“I love you, Georgie.” I had whispered into his ear, and he had held me tighter. We’d stayed that way for a few more minutes until I no longer felt that my legs wouldn’t be able to hold me up.

After having exchanged tight hugs with the others, we’d been asked to come see the Maharishi, who given us comforting words about being positive for Brian and telling us to keep thought of him happy because he’d get them. For all that had happened later on, I’d always been grateful to that man for giving us the smallest bit of hope during such a shity time.

“Did you have an idea that Brian depressed?”

I inhaled and exhaled deeply before I answered. “Not really, no. It wasn’t somethin’ that you’d just go up and ask, y’know?”

“Would you have approached Brian if you had suspected he was considering committing suicide?”

The question stung and I felt my skin bristle. I knew meself well enough, though I could hardly be called the inspective type, to know that I was clammin’ up and was feelin’ a wee bit like I was under attack. I knew it was ridiculous, ‘cor, she was interviewin’ me for Christ’s sake, but it stung. I coughed. “It was ruled out as a suicide, but probably not that’d been so. I didn’t ‘ave that sort of relationship with Brian; I wouldna felt it was any of me business.”

I hadn’t expected it to hurt to say those words out loud. A part of me wanted to explain meself to this reporter, to assure her that I wasn’t completely devoid of human decency, but I knew there wasna a point. I remembered the mad reverence in her voice when she asked me at the beginnin’ of this if I ever stopped to tell meself, “I’m Liz McCartney!”; I doubted she’d think of me that way ever again.  
  
I hadn’t been givin’ her a line when I’d told her that I didn’t have the comfy softness of most women. I was a mum now, a grandmum too, but I still wouldn’t describe meself as soft-natured. I’d softened a bit over the years, but no – I wouldn’t call meself that.

“What sort of relationship did you have with him?”

I shrugged. “Same as the others, I s’ppose.” I leaned forward in the chair, chin sittin’ on the heel of my palm. “He was our manager. He was a lovely fella and all that, but he it wasn’t like he came ‘round to me house for tea or dinner. Like I said, we all knew that he was feelin’ low about his Dad dyin’; I mean, it’s understandable isn’it? But none of us were sittin’ ‘round thinkin’ to ourselves that Brian was goin’ to do what he did. There’s no way to prepare yourself for somethin’ like that.”

The silence that followed would’ve been someone’s cue to bail out of here, but I wasn’t uncomfortable with silence. I still wasn’t sure if that was the case with Nancy-the-reporter. I hadn’t quite figured her out yet.

“Who introduced the band to transcendental meditation, or told you all about the Maharishi rather?” She changed the topic quickly, but as I was becoming aware of, just ‘cos she moved on from somethin’ didn’t mean the topic was left alone. Quite adept this one.

“Some friends of ours had gone to one of his lectures and told us it might be somethin’ we’d be into. We saw him when he came to London and were invited to attend a conference he was givin’ in Wales. We were off from Euston Station within days.” To this day I remembered sprinting up the pavement towards the carriage with George ahead of me, fingers tight around mine as he’d manoeuvred us through. We’d had a time of it tryin’ to get through the throng of screamin’ birds who let it rip when they caught sight of us but had somehow managed it.

“And then you went to India.”

I nodded. “A few months later, yes.”

“What were you looking for there, Liz?”

“Are you asking about what I was lookin’ for there, or the others?”

“You, specifically.”

I paused, reflectin’ for a moment on that. “I’d gone to India to find a little peace; to see if there was anythin’ like tranquility still out there for us. The entire ‘Beatles’ thing could get right overwhelmin’ at times and for a while I was questionin’ whether it was enough. You see, it’s grand and all, bein’ able to make the kind of music that you like and havin’ shitloads of kids tellin’ you how great they think your music is an’ all, but you if you aren’t careful, it’s very easy to lose sight of who you are. I never stopped bein’ Liz McCartney and then later on Liz Harrison, but I knew that I could’ve become someone I didn’t know if I let it be. At the time the appeal of India, or more specifically, what the Maharishi was tellin’ us, was that we were capable of findin’ something real even with all the madness that was goin’ on ‘round us.”

“What was that ‘something real’ that you found?”

I gave her a small smile, “It’s like that line from George’s song, ‘With our love, we could save the world’. It’s a powerful way of lookin’ at things; you’re just a part of a whole, we’re all connected to everything and each other. Very trippy that!” I laughed and helped meself to another spot of tea.

“And how was it? Going to Rishikesh to take a course with the Maharishi?”

I shifted in my chair. “It was a lovely holiday. We returned to England very well rested.”

I remembered making love before dawn with George and watching the sunrise coming over the mountains for the first time. I remembered goin’ ‘round in a floaty white salwar and sittin’ in the morning sunshine with one or all the lads and playin’ music. I remembered lying on a blanket under a shade while Paulie strummed the beginnings of _Mother Nature’s Son_ and feelin’ a soft, serene sort of quiet happiness. I remembered laughin’ with Cyn, who bless her hadn’t looked very happy during a lot of the trip – the distance between her and John more than obvious – over hot jasmine tea, and listenin’ to Jane as she told me about plans for the wedding that as history would show hadn’t happened. I remembered giggling when I’d watched Ringo flip open his suitcase shortly after his arrival and show us the tins of baked beans and a tin opener he’d smuggled in ‘cos he didn’t want to try any of the exotic Indian fare; poor lamb, always had a delicate tum.

“Even if you left a bit wiser about the motives of the Maharishi?”

I shrugged. “No one can say with 100% certainty about what happened; it was one person’s version versus another’s. At the end of it, as I said, we returned to England well rested, and I think as John once put it, a stone or so thinner.” Living off of yoghurt and no meat will do that to you! I was reminded of Paulie’s disgusted face when we’d all gone out to dinner a few days after getting’ back to London, and I’d finished a kidney pie in two minutes. I’d told him to bugger off and ordered another.

“At this time it’s been less than a year and your manager’s died, you’ve made a film that many critics panned, you’ve gotten involved in transcendental meditation and then when to India for a few weeks where you wrote the majority of the songs that would be on what’s to be known as _The White Album_. Was it like John described in the interview he had with Jann Wenner? Did Paul step up around this time and take control of the band?”

I paused, knowing that this was going into very ugly territory. “Did the four of us become sidemen to Paul, you mean?” I raised a brow. “I don’t know how to answer that really. I don’t think Paul did it with bad intentions; he just did what he thought that he needed to do. It wasn’t an easy time for any of us.”

“How did you respond to it?”

“I don’t remember responding to this in any particular fashion; I just went along with it like the others. As I said, Paul must’ve felt that one of us needed to step up and make sure that we didn’t veer off the rails. It wasn’t a vendetta; Paulie Beatle sittin’ at home planning on how he’d take over!” I was reminded of that long-ago interview that John’d given the editor of this same magazine where he’d gone onto to describe what had happened with us after Brian had died.

It had been Paul’s idea of make _Mystery Tour_, though the rest of us hadn’t been too fussed with it – we’d been fed up with touring, but knew that the fans felt that we owed ‘em so we’d gone along with it. Crap film that it’d been in the end. We’d starting filming it two weeks after Brian had died and it was obvious our hearts weren’t in it – at least mine wasn’t.

“Do you think the band would have ever broken up if Brian hadn’t died?” The reporter looked at me evenly as she asked what I knew had been an inevitable question: Did I think that we would have split up if Brian hadn’t died? That was a question I’d asked myself many times, though the few times I’d allowed myself to really go down that path on this in those few years following the break up, I’d had a few drinks or been feeling particularly down about something.

Deciding that I needed to give myself a moment before answering, I stood and walked over to the coffee maker, immediately wrapping my fingers around the coffee pot’s warm arm. I didn’t allow her the chance to decline this time and briskly refilled her empty coffee cup, leaving enough room for milk and sugar. She gave me a small nod of thanks, never breaking eye contact but not unpleasantly.

“I think the break up was unavoidable in some ways. There’s no tellin’ when it might’ve happened, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. Those sorts of things usually are.” I said this evenly before taking another drink of tea.

“You sound very sure of that.”

“I am. Think about it lovie, bein’ with the same people day in and out, in John, George and Paul’s case, for over ten years, you’re bound to want to break loose. As musicians we were all going in separate directions, so it was just a matter of time. I think on some level, we always knew that The Beatles weren’t going to be forever, you know? It was an amazing, incredible time in all of our lives, but I think it’s pointless to sit around forever and think ‘bout what could’ve been.”

“So you can assure all of us that it wasn’t Yoko’s fault that The Beatles broke up?” There was as teasing note in her voice and I chuckled in kind.

“Yoko just happened to come into the equation when things were already pretty strained in the band. Her involvement didn’t exactly help matters, but no, she wasn’t the reason we broke up. It’s unfair to want to blame one person for what happened with five other people, y’know?”

“Can you think of anything specific that went on that made you stop and think ‘Its done, I don’t want to do this anymore’?” She asked, and I saw her remove another tape from her bag; I expected the one currently recording to end soon.

I paused, nodding at her to do whatever she needed to do and also to give me a minute to get my thoughts together. We were definitely gettin’ into murky waters here and I needed to be honest without making ‘em even murkier! She gave me a quick smile when she’d finished.

I cleared my throat. “There wasn’t a specific moment exactly, just a pilin’ up of various things. As I said, the end of ‘The Beatles’,” I was incapable of not making those silly air-quotation marks, “started when Brian died. It could’ve been that without the referee there to monitor that things weren’t gettin’ out of hand they did.

“In previous interviews, the others have said that they realized that things were going sour in the band when you started to make _The White Album._ Do you agree?”

I considered this for a few minutes, falling back into the silence I was so comfortable with. “I think it was more obvious when we were makin’ that LP, so yeah, I guess I can go along with that.”

“What was it about the recording of that album that made it apparent to you?”

I sighed. “It’s the obvious things isn’t it? No Brian, for one. Formin’ Apple Corps and not havin’ an ounce of ‘business acumen’ between the five of us so you know the money was just flushin’ down the shitter. All the trouble that George had gettin’ Paul or John to go along with recordin’ his stuff – that was the hardest for me, I think. Like I said, it’d always been that way, but he started resentin’ it a lot ‘round then. I think George hadn’t really raised a fuss about it before because he mayn’t have felt that all of his songs were up to line, but with Revolver onwards he began to build more confidence in his work. I’ll come out and tell you that both John and Paul could be right bastards about recordin’ some of George’s stuff. When we started recording in ’68, George had released an album of his own instrumental stuff, was gettin’ really recognised among other musicians for his abilities as a guitarist, and was gettin’ fed up with bein’ treated like one of those irritatin’ kid brothers who gets patronised by everyone. Paulie went along with it more than John, I think.”

I remembered havin’ been especially angry when John had taken it upon hisself to take off with his new girlfriend Yoko the day we were set to record _Long, Long, Long._ I hadn’t rung him up to call him ten kinds of a bastard for doin’ that, though I’d wanted to. “It’s alright, Lizzy.” George had said softly to me with a squeeze of my knee, small smile on his face, before he’d taken his seat across from me in the studio. He’d briefly chatted with Paul who’d be on the organ, nodding when Paulie’d asked about changing the key during a section.

“Fancy a ciggie Liz?” Ringo’d asked me before I pulled on my headphones, knowing that I wasn’t above making off with a few. I’d known that I must’ve had some sort of frown on me face, so I’d nodded before headin’ over and bummin’ two.

“Ta, Rings.” He’d lit the end with his. Like meself, Ringo’d never been the kind to sit ‘round talkin’ about his feelings or whatnot, but as John would say, Ringo was a ‘good skin’ and took it on hisself to try and cheer us up if we looked down ‘bout something.

“Don’t take it to heart ‘bout your fella, Liz. You know how John is.”

“I know, Rings. I know.”And I’d smiled at him because what he was sayin’ was true.

“Ringo, you ain’t tryin’ to chat up my wife are ya?!” George had yelled at us, big grin on his face.

“It was the other way ‘round, Harry, I swears it!” And Ringo’d given me a wink.

“If I was tryin’ to chat you up lovie, neither us’d still be here!” I’d motioned towards the infamous loo to the side with my chin and laughed at both of ‘em as I headed back to my chair.

“Ya tart!” Paul had giggled – yes, me brother did do that, though it usually took a cuban sized joint to do it – and the vibe in the room lightened up considerably after that. Even though it’d just been the four of us, it had been a brilliant recording session.

A few weeks later Eric Clapton, a great friend of George and mine, came to the studio to record _While My Guitar Gently Weeps_ and I’d been incapable of keeping a smile off me face. He’d played lead guitar while the rest of us filled in on bass, backing lead, and rhythm guitar and the playback sounded bloody brilliant. I’d cheekily asked him if I could buy his Gibson Les Paul off of ‘im and he’d looked at me askance, “You should know better than to try to get between a guitarist and his baby, Liz!”

“Come ‘ead, Eric, don’t be a drag.” And he’d laughingly kept his guitar at his side for the remainder of the session. He’d sent me a new Les Paul for Crimbo later that year

“Was there a lot of arguing, a lot of fighting between all of you?”

“We’d always bickered a bit when we were making albums; as I said earlier, it would’ve frankly been abnormal if we hadn’t had a few rows here and there along the way. I think what happened with that LP was that we were losin’ patience with each other.” I know that many of our fans were fond of the album, but it’d been the first of the last three that we made that were a trial to make. Luckily we’d written a lot of stuff in India, so that’d made things easier than they would’ve been otherwise.

“Did you have any misgivings when Yoko started coming around? When she started getting involved in the band’s business –“

“What do you mean?”

“In the documentary that was made during the recording of Let It Be we saw that she was always around. Did you or any of the others ever go up to John or the others when she started sitting in during all of the sessions and say, ‘Hey John what is she doing here’?”

“Of course we did at first, when it became apparent that she was goin’ to be there all the bloody time, but John hadn’t though her being in the studio should be a big deal. The fact that George and I were married came up a few times.”

“That was a different situation though, wouldn’t you say? You’d been in the band for a few years before you’d gotten with George.” She said, rising to my defense.

“I s’ppose so. We weren’t being compared to one another. I was a member of the group – had been there since before Brian even signed us, but George and I were able to, in the studio, separate being married from work. But that was more because me and George had made a conscious effort to keep ‘em separated as much as possible. All Yoko was able to do when she was there was give an opinion, really. It wasn’t like we had to change anything because she was suddenly around, musically I mean. She wasn’t pushin’ us to do anythin’. ”

“So she just came with the package?”

“Yea, that’s a way of puttin’ it. John wanted her there, and that had to be okay – even if it wasn’t the most desirable thing at the time, we just had to go with it.”

“Since we are briefly mentioning the time around the last album that was released, what was the entire experience of making the documentary for Let It Be like?” She finished her question and drank more coffee.

I was thoughtful, instantly reminded of the studios at Twinkenham that we’d moved to to record the LP. I decided an honest, but still, fairly edited answer was called for. I’d been doing a lot of that during this interview. I was also reminded of exactly why I had turned down interviewer after interviewer over the past almost forty years; I didn’t like having to censor meself!

“Uh, it wasn’t ideal. I wasn’t too comfortable havin’ all those cameras ‘round while we were recording. I was actually really surprised that people were so into it. I know and am honoured that people still love our music to this day, and that people of all ages are discovering us all the time, but recording an LP can be very tedious at times and to watch an entire film about recording LP doesn’t sound that interesting. Then again, I think if a documentary had been released about the making of one of Elvis’s albums or something, then I  
think I would’ve gotten really into it –“

“Elvis or Jacqueline du Prè certainly!”

“Nine hours of Elgar and Bach’s Cello Suites…you know I wouldn’t have been able to resist meself!! Actually I was able to see Jackie du Prè perform a few times during her hey-day, and let me tell you, I was green with envy. She was a wonderful cellist.” I still remembered watching her perform from a box seat that Brian had arranged for me, as the soloist with the London Symphony Orchestra. I’d felt it in my fingers as her hands had moved up and down the neck of the cello. They had itched to pluck out those chords, to feel the quiver of the bow as it was dragged over the strings.

I had known that I was probably in the most enviable position in the world: I was a Beatle. But I was jealous of her—that really dotty, possessed looking blonde who played the cello with more passion than I ever felt I was capable of. Her agent knew that I was in the audience (I had received more than my fair share of looks when I had arrived at the Royal Albert in a dress that I’d only bought that afternoon because Jane had told me that I could not show up in trousers and a suit jacket even if they were from ‘bloody-Saville-Row’) and within minutes of the end of her performance, the fella had found a way into the box and asked me to come to the back to meet Jackie.

Jacqueline du Prè had been lovely and I’d felt a rather unnecessary sense of pride when I was introduced to her and instead of me being tongue-tied around her, she was tongue-tied around me! I had become used to the mad out-of-body experience that being fucking famous was like. I knew to expect the wide-eyed looks from fans, but it was still strange when someone I admired acted that way around me, common as I could be at times. It turned out that Ringo was her favourite of the lot – according to her he looked the nicest…little did she know!

To this day I remembered the look of surprised when I’d let her know that I had played the cello since I was seven and that I thought she was fantastic! “I would’ve thought that you rock ‘n rollers wouldn’t come near classical music!” She had laughed. For someone who sounded so posh, she had come across as very good-natured and approachable.

“It’s a secret that will be the end of us. Don’t you know that we sit around reading books about musical theory during our off time?” I had added with a smile, about to lose it as I thought about my brother and John taking a course over music composition – they would probably toss their books into the nearest bin within ten minutes and head to the pub ‘round the corner for a pint and a bit of Irish stew.

When I’d returned home that night, I’d headed upstairs to my office and ran through some of my old sheet music for the next few hours. I’d been reassured then and there that making music made me happier than anything else in the entire world.

A few days later I remembered that I’d asked Paul to come ‘round with some of the new material that he was working on for what would be _Revolver_. He and I had never written music together, but that afternoon I’d sat across from him while he played the early stages of _Eleanor Rigby_ on his guitar, plucking out a random chord or two on my Stradivarius and somehow along the way I started playing the beginnings of what would become the cello section. I hadn’t known how Paul would respond, but he’d told me that it was good and that we should get with George Martin to arrange both a cello and violin section for the song.

Truth be told I was feeling a bit like a nervy spaz when we were set to record it in the studio a few weeks later. It wasn’t like I hadn’t played anything other than the guitar on one of our LPs before; I’d played the violin on _Yesterday_,but I’d hidden among the string section of that orchestra in the studio and hadn’t had to perform alone until we’d done it on stage. _Eleanor Rigby_ was the first time that I would play both the lead violin and the cello in an actual recording of our songs, though George Martin had arranged for a string quartet to be brought in later on to back what I’d done. Since they weren’t due to provide more than backing harmonies on this track, both John and George’d hung around, taking the mickey out of me when I’d placed my cello between both blue jean clad knees.

“You’re missing yer gloves and ball gown, Macca Jr.” John had chirped with a grin, dark sunglasses hanging off the bridge of his nose.

“When I asked to borrow one of yours Cyn said that your azure one was still at the cleaners.” I had countered, taking a drag of my ciggie and then tapped the end against an ashtray.

“You’re just jealous that I look dashing in azure.”

“I might’ve agreed to that _before_ you challenged the fat lady down the road to a biscuit eating contest, and _won_.” I’d winked at him, knowin’ that he’d gained a stone and hated it. “You’re still a stunner, lovie, there’s just more of you to love then there was before!” And I’d blown him a kiss. I saw Paul laughing in the control room.

“At least they were good biscuits.” John sighed dramatically.

“Ready, Liz?” I’d heard Paul ask me through my headphones. I had nodded quickly before taking another quick drag and then set it aside.

George Martin’s voice had cut in, “Ten seconds, Liz,” from the intercom between the control room and the studio. With Ringo and Paul upstairs with George Martin, and John and George standing ‘round with tea and a bacon butty, I had laid down what would be both layers of the cello section in about sixteen takes and then the lead violin in the next two hours or so. To this day I will remember how bleeding chuffed I’d been when I heard the playback a few hours later with the boys. I had always been critical of my playing, and I had fully expected them to crack a few more jokes about trying to be posh, but I had been very happy with how things turned out.

After hearing the song once through, John had turned to me and had said, “Seems to me that Paulie shouldn’t go about telling everyone that he got all the talent the Macs had to offer.” It was after that recording that John may’ve seen yours truly as a musician and not just someone he’d try to boss ‘round – no that I’d let him mind.

“It’s like that short man syndrome, Johnny boy. Compensatin’ and all that.” Luckily I’d ducked in time to avoid gettin’ hit with the remains of Paulie’s half-eaten egg sarnie.

“Speaking of the documentary _Let It Be_, there’s a very famous scene of you and Paul –“

I interrupted the reporter before she finished, “Lettin’ off some steam, yeah.” I was already imagining the talk I’d be having with Paulie later on that evening. He’d ring and fuss for fifteen minutes until I told him everything that’d gone on during this interview. Despite whatever was goin’ on in his life, I could always count on either he or Mike to ring me up and fuss about whatever I got up to like a pair of old women.

“You were talking about Yoko.”

“Yeah, I was.” When I had finally gotten the nerve to watch that scene, I’d been brutally reminded of why I should watch my gob, ‘specially if there was a film crew hanging around.  
During this interview I hadn’t wanted to delve too much into either the topic of Yoko or the documentary, and it was for this specific reason. In having put off reporter after reporter more times than not over the past forty years, I should have expected to have to answer almost that many years’ worth of questions about what had gone on.

“Yoko talked about it in the early ‘70s. How did what you said then affect your relationship with John after the band broke up?” I drank more tea before I responded, remembering very vividly what had happened around that time.

As the documentary had shown, we’d been recording the album for a few weeks at this point and by this time we were all getting more and more fed up with the entire Beatles thing, and there were all those business things going on as well. The only thing keeping us all together then was that we had been working together for so long and at the end of it, were a family, but as with all families, there were times that were rotten and you wanted nothing more than to get the hell away from all of ‘em. I know that you know what scene Nancy’s referring to, hell, it had been in the papers after the documentary was released.

That day hadn’t been very easy. Paul’d had us rehearsing _One After 909_ since nine in the fucking morning and I was tired and not in the mood to put up with anyone’s shit. I wouldn’t tell this reporter that I’d also been feeling down for the few weeks before that had taken place. George and I had made the decision after coming back from India that we wanted to have a baby – we hadn’t told any of the others in part because of our other decision to do what we could to keep being “the marrieds” separate from the band. We’d been trying for a few months for me to get pregnant and then in November of ’68 I found out that I was.

George and I had been so excited about it. Until we finally talked about it that year, I had not thought about kids too much, though I knew that George wouldn’t be a typical scouser if he didn’t in his heart of hearts want to see me barefoot and up the duff with our babe. But after India, I found meself wanting to be more than Auntie Liz, like Jules would sometimes call me when he was tryin’ to butter me ‘bout something. I wanted to be a Mum.

I still remembered that wide toothy smile that had come on George’s face when I’d told him I was expectin’. He’d tossed his guitar onto the sofa next to him and ignoring my squaw of dismay at being carried like a sack of spuds, he’d picked me up, wrapped his arms so tightly around me and started dancing me ‘round our parlor. “Liz…I love you so much, Lizzy. I can’t wait to see you when you’re the size of a ‘ouse!”

“You’re crushin' the poor thing!” I had laughed as George continued to squeeze me tightly. It had been one of the happiest times in those early years of our marriage.

When I’d miscarried three weeks later, I had curled up into a ball on our bed for four days with the drapes drawn and refused to come out of our bedroom. Though I had only been a few weeks along, I’d loved our little baby, and hadn’t known when my heart would stop aching every time I took a breath. George had been so lovely to me, though I knew he was hurting too.

We hadn’t told the others that I was pregnant because I wanted to wait until after the first twelve weeks so I knew it was a surprise when George filled them in on why I wouldn’t go to the studio, something I’d never done before. I’d refused to speak to any of them when they’d tried to ring; I had wanted nothing more than to just lie there on our big bed and sleep and sleep some more until it didn’t hurt anymore. On the third day of my self-imposed isolation, I’d been halfway asleep when I felt the bed dip next to me.

“Let me sleep, George.” I had whispered, dragging the cover over my head. Those few days I’d felt such a mad rush of feeling whenever I was around George, caught between loving him more than I knew I could ever love anyone and hating the fact that I couldn’t bring myself to hug him back when he tried to hold me because it made my heart ache in a way I’d never thought it could when he’d tried.

“Come ‘ead, Liz. You’ve been in bed all day, luv.” Paul’s voice had said and without waiting for me to move, he’d dragged the sheet from over my head. He had been sitting next to me on the bed and looked at me with a sad smile that’d made my insides hurt.

“What’re you doing here, Paul?” I had asked with a sigh, rubbing my eyelids tiredly.

“I wanted to come and see my kid sister.” His words had been laced with fake cheerfulness, but I knew that he didn’t feel it. It had been written all over his face.

“This isn’t the best –”

“I know, Liz.” My brother wasn’t usually the sort to want to deal with these types of emotional things; it was something we had in common most of the time. “Let’s get you up, alright? Go take a shower and I’ll bring you a cuppa ok?”

“I’m not hungry. Look Paul, ta for comin’ and all, but I really don’t –“

Paul had wrapped his arms around me before I could finish and though I tried in vain to return a one-armed version, he had still held me tightly and oddly, had started to rub my back the way that our Mum used to when I was younger. Whenever I’d been feeling poorly, she would come into my room and would rub in small circles and I remember feeling like all my cares would melt away. “Paul, I can’t –“

“S’alright, Lizzy. I know. I know, luv.” I had resisted it at first, but he had continued rubbing my back in that same gentle soothing sort of way that our Mum had used to do.

My brother and I had always somehow managed to be good mates since we were wee babes. As we’d gotten older and after I’d joined the group, he’d pushed me, aggravated me, at times made me want to chunk one of my boots at the back of his head. But then it was times like those when we stopped being band mates and good mates who enjoyed taking the mickey out of one another, and I was just his kid sister and when I started crying, he let me.

I hadn’t felt like talking and he hadn’t made me. “You should see to George, Liz. He’s hurting just as bad as you are.” Paul had said softly to me, continuing to rub my back.

“I know,” I had been surprised at how small my voice sounded. My head had been buried into the side of his neck.

“He loves you, Liz. God knows what it is about you, but he does,” he’d said to me and I had heard the gentle teasing in his voice. I’d nodded because I knew this was true. Paul’s arms were comfortable and familiar around me.

I don’t remember how much longer Paulie and I had stayed like that, but eventually he said, “Liz, you reek, girl! Off you be to the shower.” He’d ignored whatever I might’ve said in response, pulled the cover from the bed and ten seconds later I was deposited in the bathroom. While standing under the full spray of the showerhead for a good ten minutes I had recognised that that had been one of the most loving things my brother had ever done for me. I shouldn’t have been surprised though; after Mum had died he, Mike and I had been the ones to hold the others’ hair back when we were tossing up our breakfast if we were feeling poorly. I had known that coming to see me like this hadn’t been any different to him, just something that either of us would’ve done for the other.

Thirty minutes later I had gone downstairs to the kitchen where George had been making tea and Paul was frying bacon a few feet away. All these years later I had remembered how tired George’d looked and how I had wanted nothing more than to just crawl up inside of his heart where I knew I would always be safe. I wasn’t sure if either of them had heard me when I’d come into the room, but when I’d come up behind George and wrapped my arms around his waist and laid my cheek against his back, his body had been tense but had relaxed into mine and then he’d laid a hand over my forearm and squeezed it. “I’m sorry, Georgie.” I had said softly.

He hadn’t said anything; he’d switched the kettle off and then turned into my arms. His eyes had looked tired and sad and it looked like he hadn’t slept in days. I had rubbed my cheek against his own which was covered with a scratchy few days’ worth of beard.

“I know, Liz.” He had leaned down until his thick brown hair hung around my face and he had kissed my forehead. It had been months before I’d stopped hurting about our little baby, but knowing that the we’d have one when it was meant to be (George’s words), had made it more bearable.

Giving myself a quick shake of the head, I was brought back to the present and to the interview that I was still in the middle of. I was reminded of what the reporter had asked: How did what you said about Yoko affect your relationship with John? “He was understandably not too pleased with me. What I’d said wasn’t very kind.”

“Do you think you would have said that about Yoko if John had been around?”

I looked at her impatiently before I went on. “You saw the documentary didn’t you? It wasn’t the easiest time, and like any human being I reacted to the amount of tension and stress in the studio. I’m not proud of what I said, but it can’t be changed.”

As I said, it hadn’t been an easy time. Other than dealing with my miscarriage in my usual ‘Get on with it’ attitude, the recording of _Let It Be_ had been filled with shitloads of tension that had carried over from when we were making The White Album. George was still havin’ problems with both John and Paulie about puttin’ his songs on the album, so finally in January he’d had enough for a while and had quit the band for almost two weeks.

A few weeks after that had taken place, I’d let loose a bit of vitriol that still haunted me a bit to this day. As mentioned, I was gettin’ fed up with coming into the studio to rehearse at what may’ve been the crack of dawn for all I cared. I was gettin’ frustrated of having all our moves filmed by a pack of cameramen and I didn’t like being at Twikenham. I was especially getting fed up of the mad-haired woman who stuck to John’s side like glue and immediately started whispering into his ear whenever we stopped. True, it wasn’t as if she had any sway over the decisions we made as a group, but it was still fuckin’ annoying.

During a tea break, I’d been sitting off on me own when Paul’d come to join me at the piano. “How much longer do you reckon he’ll have her here?” I’d asked Paul, mistakenly assuming that since it was a break that that included a break in filming.

“Christ, I wish I knew.” He’d said, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand.

“She’s always ‘round. Isn’t there a light fixture she can go off and decoupage or somethin’?” I had asked before reaching for his pack of ciggies. Paul had chuckled.

“Now, now, be nice.” He’d leaned forward to offer me a light, his bass sitting on his lap.

“I don’t want to bloody play nice,” The almost twenty-six year old me had snapped tiredly. “Fuckin’ hell, Paulie, I am sick and bloody tired of rehearsin’ at nine in the bloody morning in this fuckin’ damp studio while that Jap bint sits next to John all superior-like just staring at us. She’s not in the fuckin’ band now is she? There’s no reason she should be here day in and out, Paul.”

I knew that I’d been tired when I said that. I could be a terrible bitch at times, but I wasn’t nasty.

“I was able to watch the documentary a few weeks before it was released. I wasn’t too happy about it, but by that point the band had split up and there wasn’t anything else for me to do but go ‘round to see John.” I looked at the reporter Nancy evenly and in that moment wished that I hadn’t given up smoking years ago.

The conversation I’d had with John had been one of the hardest I’d ever had. In all our years or working together and being mates, we’d had minor rows, but most of the time we got along famously. We had pissed around in the studio in the early days, telling each other off when necessary but had long ago settled into a comfortable friendship.

“Did you know that _Abbey Road_ was going to be the last album the band would ever make?” She asked, momentarily veering from a topic I knew we’d be comin’ back to.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that. You can’t fix what’s already been broken, ‘specially if no one wants to do the fixin’.”

George Martin had wanted us to make one last album, the way we used to, before all the crap with management had come ‘round and we were barely functioning. We’d wanted to leave on a high note after the piece of crap that we’d thought what would become _Let It Be_ had been, and the few song set that made up our ‘infamous’ rooftop concert on top of our Saville Row offices. When the end came, we’d been expectin’ it and that had been that. I remembered giving Ringo a big hug before we’d headed out of Studio Two at Abbey Road that last time ‘cos I’d known that that was it.


	5. The Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of the elusive fifth Beatle's interview.

Title: The Interview  
Rating: PG-13, bordering on R for language and themes.  
Pairing: Liz/George

Summary: The conclusion of the elusive fifth Beatle's interview.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles and this is about as AU as you can get. I have taken, many, many liberties, namely which that this involves a fictional "fifth" Beatle (who happens to be a female), so history (and certain dates) will very obviously be fudged with. This was a dream that I had for a week -- this wrote itself.

Note: This was too large to post in one entry, so it's been separated into two. The link to the second section of **Part 5** is placed at the bottom.

As always, thank you so much to those of you who read and commented during my writing of this. Thank you for giving this a chance. I appreciate that so much.

“What happened, Liz? I know that you’ve said the beginning of the end started when Brian Epstein died, and have discussed the divisions that began to appear in the group – for example with the difficulty that George had getting either John or Paul to record his songs, but why did it become as acrimonious as it became? It wasn’t a very pretty ending was it?”

“Is the end of anythin’ ever pretty?” The sarcasm in my voice was obvious even to mine ears. “There was a lot of resentment at the end of it. I don’t have to go into the history of it; the others ‘ave talked about it to death, but to rehash things a bit, Paul wanted Linda’s brother to take over as our manager and the four of us didn’t – we wanted Allen Klein. As the sayin’ goes, that was the needle that broke the camel’s back.”

I was reminded of all those business meetings where we’d come face to face with the fact that what we’d imagined would be a brilliant project – Apple the mecca for artists – was goin’ to go down the shitter with us millions in debt if we didn’t get our acts together.

It was also ‘round this time that George Martin had mentioned me possibly doing a bit of soloist work with the London Philharmonic in the string quartet, and it was somethin’ I’d begin seriously considering. During the makin’ of _Abbey Road_ I’d either stuck to the control room or me chair by the piano when we were back in Studio Two. I’d been on good terms with everyone for the most part whilst makin’ the LP, but the easiness of bein’ in the studio was long since gone. It wasn’t the chasm that had been so obvious in the documentary that would become _Let It Be_, but it was nothin’ like our early days.

There had been a few bright spots during those days, however. I remembered the time I’d been in the studio during a break very early on that last Summer we’d started recording, havin’ a smoke with both Paulie and Ringo, and George had come over guitar in hand and had sat on the piano bench across from me. John and Yoko had been sittin’ off on their own as they’d usually done. Paulie’d been chatting to both Ringo and me ‘bout a few things he was workin’ on, askin’ me if I could meet with George Martin to make a few orchestral arrangements – the usual, really.

“I’d really fancy a Rolls Royce Princess, Paulie. Can you write us one, please?” I’d asked a grin, referrin’ to John and Paul’s old way of ‘writing’ what they wanted – whether it be writing a song for a new car or swimming pool.

“Well since you’re askin’ so nicely, I might be disposed to throwing you a line or two. I’d be more disposed if you make a pot of tea and fried up eggs on toast.” He’d chuckled before he’d started talkin’ to George. Within minutes I’d head them talkin’ ‘bout the chord progression of a few songs in the works. “Play a bit of those measures you were tellin’ me about?” I’d overheard Paulie ask George; I’d been talkin’ to Ringo ‘bout what he wanted me to do for _Octupus’s Garden_, arms wrapped around my knees.

It obviously wasn’t uncommon for one of us to play bits and pieces of stuff we’d written for each other, and I’d long since tuned out the sound of a milieu of guitars while chattin’ with someone. But for whatever reason my ear’d been tuned into what George had started playin’ ‘bout ten seconds in. At first I hadn’t really paid the lyrics any mind, completely enveloped in the bluesy guitar chords, and focused on his fingers which moved over the guitar’s neck…and then I’d heard the warm, quiet way of _“Somewhere in her smile/ She knows/ That I don’t need no other Lover / Something in her style that shows me / I don’t want to leave her now/ You know I believe in how”_ and it had made my heart clench as I remembered the rough time I’d given him after I’d lost our baby.

It wasn’t our way to be overly affectionate with one another ‘round other people, but I’d been unable to keep the smile on me face from covering the entire lower half of it as he kept playing. “That’s quite nice, George. Who’s it about?” I’d asked when he finished.

His smile was obvious, even through his thick beard. “Didn’t I tell you ‘bout the bird I keep in that flat ‘round the corner from here? Makes a mean jacket potato, she does!”

I’d laughed. “You best tell her to keep makin’ them spuds for you, if that’s the way to get decent music out of youse!”

George had laughed and ignoring Ringo and Paul, he’d come over to give us a kiss and a squeeze on the knee before headin’ back to his usual spot across the way. Watching our scenes in the video where we were walkin’ in our garden with our long dark hair, his arm tight ‘round my shoulder, still filled me with a warm sweetness.

“Who was the first to leave?” She asked me quickly.

I coughed. “John was the one to leave officially and not come back, I mean. George and Rings had left once or twice in the past; Ringo in ’68 and George at the beginning of ’69…but they’d come back. John didn’t. He didn’t make an announcement ‘bout it though.”

“That was Paul.” Nancy-the-reporter said matter-of-factly and I nodded.

“Yeah.” I coughed and helped meself to a bit of tea.

“Did Paul talk to you before he made the announcement to the media?”

I shrugged. “Somethin’ like that.”

“Is no point puttin’ it off, Liz.” He’d rung to tell me from the pub down the road from his farm in Scotland a week or so after my twenty-seventh. He’d sounded very tired but at the time I hadn’t had too much sympathy for what he was feelin’ – truthfully, what had kept me from setting the phone down on him then was that I knew it’d hurt our Dad if he got word of it.

“Do whatever you think you need to do.” I’d answered, knowin’ full well that he wasn’t askin’ me for my permission to do anything.

“I already know how things are goin’ to be with the others, Liz. You’re my family, kid.” Even to this day I could imagine him mussin’ his hair in worry.

“Yeah, I don’t need much remindin’ of that nowadays, Paul. Give me love to Linda and the girls. I’m off.” I’d set the phone down on him before he could answer, knowin’ full well that if I didn’t that I’d be likely to say something quite nasty that I knew would hurt him terribly, so I’d let it be. I’d only shrugged when George asked me about the phone call later on and he hadn’t pushed it since I figured he knew I’d tell him when I ready.

Paulie released his announcement on 10 April, and the next day I made the trip up to Kintyre. Neither he nor Linda’d been expectin’ me, so I hadn’t known what to expect when I arrived. I hadn’t spoken to Paul since hangin’ up on him. It’d been Linda who’d answered the door, holding my new baby niece Mary on her hip.

“It’s good to see you, Liz. Come in, come inside.” Linda’d said to before steppin’ forward to give me a tight hug, bein’ nothing but warm and inviting. She’d taken me to their kitchen.

“Where’s Paul?” I’d asked her eventually, surprised that she hadn’t asked me what the hell I was doin’ there the moment I arrived on their door. But as time would tell, that just wasn’t her way. She’d sat down, baby Mary in her lap, and let me make the tea.

“He’s in the back garden. He’ll be happy to see you, Liz.” Linda had told me and laughed when I made what I assumed to have been a disbelievin’ face. A few minutes later, cup in each hand, I headed out the back door towards where I could make out Paul sittin’ on a bench, bent over his guitar. He didn’t turn as I came nearer, probably assumin’ I was Linda or sommat.

“Fancy a cuppa, Paulie?” I’d asked and handed it to him within seconds of him lookin’ up at me. Me brother has forever been known as the P.R. man, and if I hadn’t known him like the back of my hand, I’d ‘ave thought things were right as rain with us, but I did know him, and I knew he was put out with me. Probably expectin’ me to ‘ave come all that way to spew forth whatever vitriol I’d may’ve felt with his announcement from the day before. George and I’d had to set the phones off their hooks by mid-day the previous day because of the amount of calls we’d received – it’d been unbearable for people like he and I.

He shrugged before setting it aside and immediately fitting his fingers ‘round the guitar’s neck, diggin’ into the frets. “It’s a long way from Oxfordshire.”

“Yeah, I know. Scoot will ya?” I’d taken a sip of tea while looking at him expectantly. He’d raised an eyebrow and did, even if a bit reluctantly. He didn’t saying anything, he just started playing a random diddy, actin’ like for all sense and purposes, as if my presence was no big deal, which it probably wasn’t. I think if anyone had come upon us, the last thing that would’ve crossed their heads was that me brother had effectively made an announcement that he was leaving the biggest fuckin’ band that had ever come out of Britain, and which I’d also been part of.

Paul didn’t say anything when I’d leaned over and kissed his temple and then had laid me head on his shoulder. “You’re lucky to be up here. One of the blessings of living in Scotland I gather.”

“It’s a great place.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be in London right now, anyhow.”

“That bad is it?” He’d asked, setting his guitar down on his lap. He’d rested his cheek on the top of me head. I laughed because I knew that he knew it was a stupid question.

“Nicht, not really. I mean considerin’ that they just found out that the best thing to come out of England since Cary Grant’s gone kaput, they’re handling it reasonably well.” I’d chuckled.

“Fancy that.” He’d answered, and expectedly, ran a hand through his thick dark hair and scratched his beard for good measure.

“I love you, Paulie. Nothin’ is ever going to change that, ‘right?” I’d turned to wrap both arms around him and squeezed him tight. Pulling back, I’d given him a bit of a cheeky grin before adding, “Now let’s stop being old women and play me a bit of what you’ve been working on.” He’d stood up, and leading me back to his little makeshift studio, played an advance copy of McCartney – which I’d given him a look over ‘Might self involved of you, Paulie’ – for me from start to finish.

I’d waltzed my laughing newly adopted niece Heather around the studio while Singalong Junk played in the background.

“What happened during the meeting you had with John before the documentary was released?” The reporter asked, returning to the topic we’d been on earlier. I gave a wee shake of my head, like before, meandering in my memories of years past.

“I’d gone ‘round to the flat he and Yoko were staying in. It was Yoko who answered the door; she’d been dressed all in white. ‘What may I help you with, Elizabeth?’ She had asked me. I’d told her that I needed to see John and she’d told me that he was sleeping but that I could wait in the sitting room if I wanted until he woke up. I must’ve sat in that sitting room for almost four hours before John came in. He and Yoko had been messing ‘round with heroin for a while at that point, so he was skin n’ bones. If you look at concert footage of him from the early days and compared it to how he looked in the late ’69 you can see how skinny he got.  
‘What’s going on, Liz?’ He had asked. I knew that my being there wasn’t the most welcome thing, but he hadn’t thrown me out, which I guess must’ve counted for something –“

“Were very worried about meeting up with him?”

“Yes and no I s’ppose. I don’t have to elaborate on how angry everyone was with Paul. Within days of his announcement that he was quittin’ the band, all while wanting to throttle the lot of ‘em on one hand and gettin’ fed up with all the bullshit, I’d seen ‘em both alone and told ‘em that I wasn’t going to take sides. ‘Specially with John. He was the kind of person who would cut people out of his life at the drop of a hat, or at least gave the appearance of it. Despite what had happened at Apple and the demise of the band, Paul was still me brother, me family. I’d told John that and that though he wasn’t me blood, that I considered him me brother too.”

“How did John respond when he saw that you’d been waiting him for four hours in his sitting room?”

“He hadn’t know what was going on, but I needed to be honest. I don’t hate Yoko, you see, I never have. What I said may give the impression otherwise, but I didn’t. He wasn’t blind – he’d been there after all, so he knew how things were during the recording of that album. I explained to John that I’d been put off by Yoko always being at the studio, and apologised for what was said between Paul and me in front of those camera scruffs. At the end of it, I wasn’t too fussed by what the rest of the world might’ve thought about things.”

To this day I remembered sitting across from John. His hair had been a long matted nest of brown hair and the bottom half of his face had been shrouded in a thick straggly beard, wire rimmed glasses on the brim of his nose. I’d been both surprised and relieved that Yoko had left us alone for a bit. She’d obviously known that what I needed to talk to him about wasn’t goin’ to be easy and having her there would make it harder.

“What did he say?”

“He wasn’t happy with it. Though he didn’t come and say it, I know it hurt him to know about it, but I think my going to talk to him about it, being straight up about what I said, despite my reasons for it, helped a bit.” That was putting it mildly. There were certain things that I was deliberately withholding from the reporter. John had been pretty vocal about the fact that he could be an asshole, but I didn’t want to get full into how he’d called me a cunt when I’d laid it out there. I don’t think the reporter could’ve begun to understand the complexity that was John Lennon. I didn’t think she could fully understand that John always lashed out the hardest at the people he loved. I wasn’t Paul – which as time would show he’d been the closest to – but I knew that I had been capable to hurting him, though he’d deny it to his last breath like the coward we both knew he was.

So be as it might’ve been, I’d stuck around while he did everything but tell me to get the hell out of his home. John as I’ve said before, talked a lot of shit. He was fully capable of saying things that felt like someone was stabbing you in the heart, and it wasn’t long before he’d started going on about George and me.

I’d known that my marriage was something he felt he could throw into this, but I was quick to let him know, “You’re graspin’ for straws, mate. I didn’t rub me marriage in everyone’s face like you did with Yoko, man. What happened with you and Cyn isn’t any of me business, so me and George ain’t any of yours. I came to apologise in person for what I said – I should’ve watched me gob about Yoko, that’s true, so stop being a snot-nosed kid about it. I am sorry, but I’m not going to let you keep insulting me.”

I’d left the flat shortly after that, with John barely looking at me when I’d walked out. I’d been surprised when he’d come ‘round to our new house in Oxfordshire, a former nunnery called Friar Park, a month later with Julian and Yoko for tea. As I’d later found out, George had run into him at Apple a few days earlier and had invited him to drop by. John hadn’t looked too happy with me when I’d asked Julian how his Mum was doing, but by that point I’d been tired of tiptoeing around it everyone did, so I’d ignored it and told him to put the kettle on. John had done so despite Yoko’s silence, and it seemed as if our friendship was back to normal.

“So after that documentary was released, and all of that was out in the open, how did the breakup of the band affect your relationship with the others?” She continued to delve. I recognised that she was asking me almost forty years’ worth of questions.

“Well, there was bitterness there at the beginning. What made it difficult for a while was that the other three were so angry with Paul; for fuck’s sake, I was put off him for a bit there too. He was suing us to get out of the band – it was an abysmal time. But he was me family – I couldn’t just give up on him like that. Our Dad couldn’t have standed it for one.”

I was still reminded of phone call I’d received the morning that Paul’s announcement had hit the papers; it had been our Dad, and which had contributed to my on the fly visit up north the following day. “Liz girl, he’s your brother. If your Mum was still alive it would break her heart if you and Paulie turned your backs on each other.”

“I know as well as you do how fuckin’ unbearable _the great man_ can be at times, but you can’t cut ‘im off, Lizzy. Dad’s gettin’ on these days and you and Paulie goin’ at it won’t help, kid.” Mike had told me over dinner a few days after my return from Kintyre. I’d sighed, but had known that I more than anyone else, had to keep these things in mind. Family could be such a tricky business.

“Did your standing beside Paul when that was going on affect your marriage in any way?”  
I stopped to consider that before answering. “It could have, yes, but it didn’t really. I knew when it came down to it, George and Paul would be alright, and I didn’t really have to worry too much about Ringo because it wasn’t his way to give up on the people he cared about. It would be years before John and Paul could talk to each other without any sort of mutual anger or whatever. They’re the ones who had the hardest time of it. But that’s fairly well known, I don’t think I have to go into that too much.”

“What did you think when you found out that John had written _How Do You Sleep?_ Did he play it for you?”

“John came to see George and had asked him to play on his album. George and I went down to their ‘ouse during the time he was making _Imagine_ and that’s where I heard it for the first time.”

“Were you angry?”

I laughed before settling back once more into my chair. “You know, looking back I can see the humour in the situation that I couldn’t see then. We were all sittin’ in their kitchen and John turned to me and said, ‘I want you to hear what I’ve been working on.’ He’d been smiling all mischievous like, you know, like he’d done something really naughty but wanted me to know about it. I wasn’t sure what to expect when we all went off to his home studio where he was gonna record it and then they started playing it.” I smiled, remembering how I’d wanted to knock John to the floor, but knowing how much you’d enjoy that. “I just remember sitting there, listenin’ to it, and thinkin’ to meself – ‘You wankers are going to be the death of me!’”

The reporter laughed, “Did you have any choice words afterwards?”

“I just nodded a bit and that was that. I didn’t think that I needed to say anything to either of ‘em. John was very curious about what I had to say though, so I just told him to keep me out of his pissin’ contest with Paul, and I’d said the same thing to Paul when he writin’ the material for _Ram_. They both knew that I wasn’t goin’ to get involved in what was going on with ‘em though they tried. Y’see I knew that eventually they’d move past their anger with each other, but it would be years yet.”

“You didn’t wait around to tell George off?” The reporter laughed good-naturedly.

“George knew how I felt about everything, just like I knew how he felt. He and Paul were on speaking terms, ‘cos of me probably, but I knew that there was anger there. He’d been in the band since ‘round the time that Paul joined, so if anyone was going to have the harder time it was going to be those three and that’s how it was. I couldn’t be angry with George for feeling how he felt. I understood.”

“You know Liz, you said something earlier that struck me. You said that you weren’t a very nice person in those days.”

“I wasn’t, I’m still not. Don’t let the grey hairs and wrinkles fool you.”

“Yet you were able to maintain your neutrality during those early days of the breakup of the band. You were able to maintain a relationship with your brother, John, and Ringo and your marriage was able to survive despite the fact that you were both in the band. I think you’re underestimating yourself!”

“It wasn’t neutrality so much as knowing that it would blow over in time. I was involved in the lawsuit just like they were, but I needed to try and see the bigger picture. Appearing in a court of law, with barristers and all that, with both me husband, older brother, and two lads I considered closer than brothers wasn’t what I ever thought I’d do, but to break the band up, it’s what we needed to do. The Beatles was one part of my life – an incredible part of my life, but it’s not the whole story.”

“The guys are main characters of that story.”

“ ‘Course they are. I know that I was in one of the luckiest positions in the world. I had the chance to be in a band with some of the best musicians that ever lived and that we made music that millions of people have loved and continue to love. Not everyone can say that.”

“How did your life change following the breakup?”

“ ‘Cor, it’s been almost forty years since the end of it, most of me life’s gone and changed since the breakup!” I chuckled and helped myself to more tea. “After The Beatles, I decided to take it easy, I guess. Not give up on music or anything, but just take my time with things. I had children for one.”

When I found out I was pregnant towards the end of that summer, it’d only been days after we’d flown back to England after the concert he’d organised in New York with Ravi Shankar to raise money to help the people of Bangladesh, I remembered that I’d felt a mixture of anxiety and relief. I hadn’t known if I’d ever be able to have a child. George and I’d been married for almost five years and other than the miscarriage from almost three years before, that had only been the second time I’d been pregnant. Despite everythin’ in me to keep it from George until I was at least past nearin’ the end of my first trimester, I’d told him that evenin’ after my visit with the G.P.

Like the last time, the smile that’d covered his face had been near to blindin’. I can almost imagine how bloody frightened I must have looked when I’d sat him down, and I can only imagine the thoughts that may’ve been runnin’ through his head when I’d turned said to him so serious-like, “George, there’s something I need to talk to you ‘bout. It’s important.” Until  
I finally laid it out, I could’ve only imagined what he thought was goin’ on.

Like before, he’d sprung up, and had his arms tight ‘round me within seconds. “Lizzy, my God Lizzy. My sweet, sweet girl. It’ll be fine – better than fine, it’ll be perfect this time ‘round, luv. We’re havin’ our baby, Lizzy.” He’d pulled me back, and he’d looked so bleeding happy...so bleeding chuffed as he said while he’d moved my hair from the front of my face, “I still can’t wait to see what you look like when you’re the size of a ‘ouse!”

And mind you, his words had been prophetic – I’d grown to be the size of a house and was tortured relentlessly by the others, ‘specially John who’d broken into a fit of maniacal laughter when George and I’d come to New York during my seventh month. “Now who’s the one that challenged the fat lady down the road and won, eh?” He’d given me a one-armed hug, seein’ as he didn’t think he could get his arms ‘round my big fat belly.

Our son Sam, or rather, Samuel Peter Harrison, was born on 20th March 1972. To this day I could remember bein’ so bloody tired, hurtin’ so bloody much, and then all of a sudden hearin’ our baby cry for the first time as his little body was placed on my chest. It’d been one of the most beautiful moments in my entire life. When I’d woken up a few hours later it’d been to the sight of George holdin’ the baby – one hand under his small cap covered head, and the other cradling his back. I’d watched him starin’ at our baby for a few minutes before I’d asked, “Somethin’ wrong with ‘im then? Should we send him back with a card marked ‘defective merchandise’ written on it?” I’d asked doin’ my best to sound quite serious when I was still doped up on pain medication.

“He’s bloody perfect, Liz. Bloody marvellous really!” And when he’d smiled at me, I’d known that he meant it more than anything he’d ever said. It’s mad to think of things in certain ways, but George and I’d been friends together, then Beatles together, then married together, and finally became parents to a perfectly beautiful son together. Even for someone who could be a bit oblivious about those sort of things, it was humbling to realise all that we’d experienced together, he and I.

“You and George had four children together – Sam, Louise, Meg, and Dhani – what impact did that have on you?” The reporter asked.

I looked at her a bit quizzically before answering. “You have children don’t you? Having kids changes everything – it’s not just ‘bout you anymore, you know? There are these little people depending on you for every little thing, and ‘you’ have to take a back seat for a while. Having kids is equally the best and most difficult thing to ever happen to me...as the sayin’ goes, kids don’t come with instruction books, so you have to learn how to be a parent along the way.”

“Which of your children would you say is the most like you...the most like George?”

I laughed quietly. “They all have bits and pieces of the both of us, even some things ‘bout us that we may’ve wished they wouldn’t get along the way! Of the four, I’d say that Sam’s the most like me; we tend to get fussed over similar things, and bless him, he looks too much like Paul for his own comfort!”

“I never imagined I’d have the spittin’ image of Paul for a son, ya know.” George had said to me during one of our vacations to the Virgin Islands. The kids had been building a sand castle on the beach. “Well at least we won’t have to worry ‘bout him ever pullin’ a bird or two, with his pretty face and all.” We’d shared a laugh over it.

“With Paulie’s mile long eye lashes, and your smile, how could he not?” I’d winked before tugging my wide brimmed hat further down my head.

“Louise is the most like George in character, I s’ppose, though Dhani’s the most like him physically.” I finished answering Nancy-the-reporter’s question.

“Other than having children, how else did your life change following the break up of the band?” She continued, drinking a bit more coffee.

“It just slowed down a bit, I guess. I went ‘bout my daily life, really, it just wasn’t as crazy as it was when I was still in The Beatles.”

“Did you never have the inclination to start or join another band, Liz?”

“No, not really. Music was always there if I wanted it. After the band split up, I was able to play music when I wanted to, and to not play when I didn’t want to – simple as that. There was no one pushin’ me to do anythin’ if I didn’t want to. It was really lovely, actually.”

“I have it that George Martin introduced you to the director of the London Symphony Orchestra and that this gentleman invited you to perform as a soloist for a few performances. How would you compare the experience of being in a rock band like The Beatles, to performing as a cellist in an orchestra?”

“They’re two completely different things, being in The Beatles for almost ten years, to playing classical music with an orchestra. It’s as different as day and night in some regards. The similarities come down to the fact that I was able to play the cello in both scenarios and look back fondly on both. As I said, when it came down to it, after the band split up, I was able to play music when I wanted and not play if I didn’t want to. That was a nice thing to have in the 70s; our family was growin’, and I really just wanted to be a mum.

Bein’ asked to join The Beatles was a once in a lifetime sort of thing – I think if it had come down to havin’ to pick between me and another bloke to take Stu’s old spot, if he’d gotten on well with the lads, I don’t think I’d be where I am today. Havin’ been as ambitious as I was when I was eighteen and joined up, I didn’t imagine I’d ever wanting to stop playing or makin’ music to settle down and have a family, but after I had my first babe, I wanted to enjoy it. I know that I don’t have to tell you how it went down with John and Julian during the heyday of Beatlemania. I didn’t want to go through that with my own kids so I made a choice to spend as much time with ‘em as I could.”

“Did you perform on the albums of the other four during those years?”

I laughed, “I played on most of ‘em! It’d always been musically stimulating to play music with the four of ‘em, I just needed a break from The Beatles mold for a while, but was always willin’ to help out if they asked. Most of the time anyway.”

“I’m sure they were happy to have you!” The reporter grinned.

“Probably doin’ it out of what they thought was the kindness of their hearts more like.” I said with a bit of a wry smile. During the 70s, I’d flown all over the world at one time or another to play on one of their LPs. Be it goin’ to L.A. to work with John on _Walls and Bridges_, or travellin’ down to Nigeria when Paulie asked me to come help in layin’ down a few tracks on _Band on the Run_. It’d been great fun for the most part, gettin’ back into the studio with all of ‘em, doin’ something together that we’d known more than loved to do – we needed to do it.

What’d made it especially grand was that it felt so comfortable to play music with all of ‘em again – with John, Ringo, and Paulie I mean – and that included gettin’ back to telling each other off if we had a problem with each other’s playing. I’d known that we must’ve looked quite naff sittin’ huddled over our instruments together, barely havin’ to exchange a word, it only bein’ enough to give each other a look or even hear the way they were playin’ a note to know how they were wantin’ to play something.

It was almost like ridin’ a bicycle: you knew what to do when you got back on all instinctively like. That’s how it was whenever more than one of us got into the same room – it flowed together as naturally as it could after havin’ played together for nine years in my case, and thirteen/fourteen in John, Paul, and George’s.

“You priorities changed when The Beatles ended, wouldn’t you say?” The reporter asked, once again leanin’ towards me with an inquisitive, searchin’ look on her face.

“Of course, they had to. It wasn’t the early days anymore where the only things that mattered to me – to any of us – was to play music, make it big. I know it sounds naff to admit it, but we grew up. I know for me, music was still a huge part of my life and it always will be, but your priorities can’t help but change, and drastically mind, when you have these wee babies dependin’ on you to lead them through the world. John and Richie both had kids durin’ the craziness of those early days, and it wasn’t easy. It was rough for both of ‘em to be Beatle John and Beatle Richie while bein’ husbands and fathers, ya know? I can’t speak for anyone else, but after that, I wanted to slow down a wee bit. I wanted to actually enjoy what I’d busted my arse for, and I wanted to know my kids.”

The reporter didn’t respond for a few minutes at least, and I heard the quiet hum and then eventual click of her tape recorder. Givin’ me a slight smile, she withdrew it, and replaced it. I coughed, somehow havin’ neglected to measure out the time she and I’d been chattin’ my how quickly I was fillin’ up those tapes! I almost chuckled when I thought ‘bout the time that she or one of her assistants (as most reporters like her were wont to have probably) would have gettin’ through what may’ve been hours of me just ramblin’ on and on about decades ago.

Well I couldn’t feel too sorry for her, she’s the one who’d somehow gotten it into her head that I’d be an interestin’ subject for an article.

“Were you ever asked to go on tour with any of them, Liz?” She asked me once she’d started recording again.

I shrugged. “Paul’s asked once or twice over the years, but I preferred not to. After the last tour we did as The Beatles in ’66, I no longer had a desire to go on stage to a crowd of screamin’ kids. That was the nice thing about performing those few times with the London Symphony was that the people who came to see us were too civilised-like to start screamin’ the moment I came on stage – not that those birds who came to The Beatles shows were screamin’ over me, but you know what I mean.

George was about as fond of the idea of tourin’ as I was, otherwise there may’ve been a chance the kids and I’d have been like Linda and Heather, Mary, Stella and then James. The press’d probably say that the Maccas were startin’ a trend.” I grinned as I imagined me and George goin’ all over the world in that decade followin’ the end of our former partnership with three other people with four kids under the age of 8 – Sam bein’ born in ’72, Louise in ’74, Meg in ’76, and then finally my wee baby Dhani in ’78.

“Is Dhani the only one of your children who is musically inclined?”

“The four of ‘em have always been surrounded by music, and even Dhani will tell you that he did all he could to not pursue it, because of whatever box he may have been put it just by nature of bein’ the kid of George Harrison and Liz McCartney. But sometimes, though, you just have to go with it if that’s what you’re meant to do.”

“Do they have an idea of just how good a musician you are, Liz?” Nancy-the-reporter asked, and I broke into a fit of laughter because the idea of it was bloody ridiculous.  
“Of course they do. Had to write it on pieces of paper a hundred times over every mornin’ before breakfast they did!” I stopped to refill my cup. Somehow along the way we’d fallen into a pattern of some kind where even in moments of sayin’ nothin’, the conversation was still progressing.

“You really don’t believe all your hype, do you?”

“No, I don’t.” I answered truthfully. “Like I said, I was just someone who was given the chance to do something that they loved. It’s great that people still like the music I made with my former bandmates during my youth, but really, I wouldn’t call myself anything special. The day I start believin’ ‘my own hype’ as you call it is the day I stop bein’ meself, and I’d never want to do that.”

She rubbed her fingers over a few pieces of paper that I’d somehow neglected to see that she’d taken out at some point, lookin’ at me evenly and like before, with that continued curiosity. “The bulk of this interview has been about your days in The Beatles. I’m sure as both Paul and Ringo, the only two other remaining Beatles can attest to, the fascination that the public seems to have with all of you seems to grow and grow over time rather than lessening. Though you haven’t given a major interview in over forty years, you must’ve kept up with the media and all the times that the other four would get asked ‘Is there a chance you will ever get together again?’ Is that a reason, do you think that you’ve neglected to be a public figure like your brother and Ringo are now, and John was for a while, so that you wouldn’t constantly be badgered with questions like that, with comparisons to your old work?”

“Ya nailed in on the head, Nancy! The people that love our music are great, but I’m sure it got to be a lot to never escape that inevitable question. Change happens, and as the others have said, they couldn’t stay moptops forever – just no way.”

“Have you ever read anything your former bandmates would say about you?”

“Well you hear bits and pieces, but I wouldn’t pick up magazines they’d been interviewed in to look for what they’d say about me, no.” I settled back into my chair, and crossed a leg comfortably over the other.

“A few years before John died, he was interviewed by Playboy and he was talked about many thing, included among them, his relationship with you, your involvement with the band,  
etcetra. Would you mind if I read you a bit of what he said?”

I expected candidness if nothing else. I nodded, “No, not all.” I became incredibly aware of the soft hum of the tape then.

She withdrew a pair of wire-rimmed specs from her bag, and givin’ a quick, efficient tap of the papers in front of her, she started readin'.

_“The first time I met Mary Elizabeth McCartney was at Paul’s house. She wasn’t around very much in the beginning, coming in and out of whatever room we were practicing in with a cup of tea for Paul before heading off. One day, I think it was a few months after we’d gotten back from Hamburg for the first time, she heard us practicing and came in and basically told us we were fucking up the song. She didn’t tell me that, she told Paul. Being the right bastard I could be at times, I remember thinking to myself, ‘Whats this bint know about rock n’ roll?’ because back then I thought we were bloody brilliant and she was telling us otherwise._

_So I handed my guitar to her, wanting to put her in her place ‘cause birds didn’t play rock n’ roll. Next thing I knew, she was playing the bloody thing. I guess I expected her to be shit, but she wasn’t. Paul then decides to mention a while later ‘Oh yeah mate, me sister plays the cello almost every day’. I didn’t know what to think. No one I knew would admit to anything so fuckin’ posh, ya know? So I said to Paul, ‘It would be a great laugh to hear it’ and then next thing I knew, we were off to some old teacher’s house to hear her play._

_She was good. There’s no way of getting around that. Lizzy Macca is a bloody good musician. She’s one of those guitarists who has a way with the guitar that many don't. There’s no point goin’ about her cello and violin playin’ skills. That’s why I asked her to join my band, because she was too good not to ask. No other bird but her would’ve ever come close, but if I wanted my band to be the greatest, the biggest, I needed to set aside whatever fucking reservations I had with taking a girl into my group, and just go with it. She was better than most of the blokes we'd tried out, and by nature of that, she got in.”_

I nodded, not too sure of what else I could or should do ‘bout that. I would've expected nothin' less than candidness from John Lennon, if anythin' else.

“Your being a Beatle was made a big deal of because you were a female, but over the years, both John and Paul did say that the reason you were asked to join – even with being Paul’s younger sister --- was because you were a gifted musician. There must have been a lot of mutual respect between all of you for the work that you came up with in the years following the split wouldn’t you agree?” She continued.

“Yeah, of course. I’ve always had a lot of respect for the work that they did. They accomplished a lot, and that should be congratulated.”

“Many people have considered _Double Fantasy_ to be the best album that John made as a solo artist. You played on the guitar on the first song from the album. Did you have any idea that that album would be the last John would ever release?”

“Of course not. There was no way of knowin’ something like that.”

“Where were you when you found out he died?”


	6. Part 5 (2)

This is the continuation of **Part 5**.

I felt a lump in my throat. Thinking about the madcap things that John had done during the early days, all those infuriatin’ things he’d do later on, had been easy because there were always a wee bit of happiness around the corner. “We were at Friar Park. We’d just returned for a short holiday when we got the call.”

“Who called you?”

“Yoko.” I still remembered answering the phone and hearing her calm voice on the line. ‘Elizabeth, I know it is late, but I wanted you know that John was killed tonight.’ I’m sure you’ve had a moment in your own life where it’s like life is passin’ you by in slow motion, where you’re somehow both in and out of your body at the same time. George had found me sittin’ on the the floor next to our bed when he’d come of the toilet, knees tight against my chest, and the phone probably laying face up beside me.

“He’s dead, George. John’s dead.” Was all I was able to say to him, over and over, unable to see clearly for the tears that wouldn’t stop. We’d sat there together for a while, cryin’ together over the death of our beautiful, beautiful friend. I’d rung Ringo before ringin’ Paul, and let him know we’d be flying out to New York the next day. Ringo’d let me know that he’d rung Mo’s and had been able to let Cyn know what had happened so she’d be the one to one to tell Julian.

Talkin’ to Paulie had been hard. “I’m such a bastard, Liz. I should have seen him more, put up with his bullshit and just spent more time with him. I’m such a bastard.” Sittin’ on the other end of the line while my brother cried his heart out, just like he’d done years before when our Dad had passed, had been physically painful. I’d known this was going to be bloody hard on all of us, but I knew that Paul was hurting worse that I could imagine.

“It was terrible. We were all shattered, but we had to keep it together, if not for ourselves, then for Julian. He had to come to New York all on his own.” I heard the bitterness in my voice, and I wouldn’t apologise for it. “His father was murdered outside of his bloody home, and he’s made to come without his mum. He was seventeen years old and had just lost his dad, it was fuckin’ wrong to make him deal with that alone.”

Julian had shown up at our suite within hours of his arrival, and seein’ as I’d known him since he was a baby, I’d made him a cup of tea and a fried egg sarnie and told him to finish it. Before havin’ to go back to the flat at the Dakota, he’d given me a tight hug and I’d returned it, holdin’ him like he was me own. For those few minutes, he had been.

“Did you ever ask Yoko why she refused to have Cynthia accompany Julian?”

“She had her reasons. She knew how most of us felt about it, but she was the widow. What can you do about it, eh? Nothin’. But we were all there for Julian, and for little Sean too, and that’s what mattered.” I neglected to mention that I’d been in constant communication with John’s Aunt Mimi who hadn’t been able to come to pay he respects. She’d taken it pretty hard, but bein’ the resilient lady she was, she hadn’t let on too much. I’d made a point of stopping by her house for a visit with a few of John’s belongings when George and I returned to England, our kids having stayed behind with their nanny.

“John’s death was quite a blow –“

“Yes, definitely. Losin’ a member of your family will always be a blow to you. You may lose touch, but it doesn’t change you bein’ family, you know?”

“Life goes on.”

“Yeah, and John wouldn’t have wanted for us to stop livin’ because of what happened to ‘im. John had a lot of faults, lots and lots of ‘em, and there are times that I wanted to throttle him with a phone cord or clobber him over the head. He liked to rile people up, to make ‘em uncomfortable. But he was always straight up and wouldn’t have wanted for anyone to stop livin’, to stop movin’ on because he wasn’t ‘round to take the mickey. He’s as dear to me as Paulie and Mike, and always will be.”

“In the years that followed, your former bandmates continued to make albums, and George even went on to take part in the Travelling Wilburys along with the likes of Tom Petty and Roy Orbison, two other great musicians. Did you never stop and think to yourself that you wanted to make your own solo album?”

I considered this for a minute before answering. “No, not really. As I got older, it got to be less and less about making LPs and more about just making the music I liked, which may not have been liked by everyone. I’ve been able to make a lot of great music, and that’s more than enough for me.”

“What was it like being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in ’88?”

“It was nice, though it would have been better if Paul had come but I understood why he didn’t. It was nice to be recognised, but of course, it didn’t feel complete with either John or Paul there.” The lawsuit to split the band up which finally came to a head in ’75 being a primary reason for Paul’s no-show at the event. Standin’ up on that stage with George and Ringo, the entire room roarin’ with applause as we stood up there, had been very surreal.

“Did you ever think that the time would come that The Beatles would get together to record another Beatles song together?” She asked, referring to the three Anthologies we’d released in ’95.

“I thought there was a possibility, but I thought it was a small one.”

“What caused the four of you to do it?”

“In a nutshell, the way I remember it, a lot of stuff had been recorded and written about us over the years, and not all of it was right, ya know? I guess there was the need to set the record straight ‘bout a few things. Sides we knew recordin’ was goin’ to be a bit of a one-off, and to enjoy it while we could.” I remembered watching the video we’d made for John’s song _Real Love_, and bein’ so fully aware by how old we were: Ringo with his slightly balding head, Paulie with his greyin’ head of hair, me and George greyin’ as well.

The wrinkled fogies in the video were worlds apart from the laughin’ round faced young kids who flew to New York from London so long ago. We’d gone to hell and back together, and managed to make it out alright for the most part.

“Did you enjoy it, Liz?”

“Oh yeah, I did. It was great to get the four – five of us if you counted John’s voice from the tapes – together performin’ on a track again. Twenty-five years before that, when the band had split, there was no tellin’ if that’d happen again. So doin’ it was quite nice.”

“I hope I am not treading into something that’s too painful for you, Liz. You can say ‘Off the record’ at any time.” She looked at me steadily, and I knew what was comin’, what all of this yabberin’ on by yours truly had been buildin’ up to. I nodded.

“S’alright. Please go on.” When I’d agreed to do this interview, I’d done it knowin’ that I would be honest, or at least be as honest as I could be ‘bout stuff that didn’t concern me directly.

“In 1994, Ringo’s first wife Maureen died, and then in 1995, Paul’s wife Linda was diagnosed with breast cancer – the same thing that your Mother died of –“

“Mo’s death was a very sad time for all of us, but especially for her kids. She and Ringo had been split up for almost twenty years when she passed away, but he’d never stopped carin’ for her.” In the few times he and I’d talked about it after the fact, I knew that it’d meant a lot to him to be one of the ones with her when she died. He’d come to Friar Park for a few days after he’d flown out of Seattle before headin’ home. He had spent the majority of the time outdoors with George in the garden or sittin’ having cups of tea or goin’ out for walks with me.

“Were you in Arizona when Linda died, Liz?” She asked me, and I could see the gentle look in her eyes.

I shook my head. “I’d gone out a few weeks before she died and spent a little time with her, rode horses a bit since she loved it so. But no, I was in England when I got word.”

“Who –“

“Mary rang. Mary was the one to ring.” I answered quickly, having anticipated her question.

It’d been evening in England and I’d been in my office when the phone on my desk had rung.

“Liz...Auntie Liz is that you?” I’d heard the muffled voice on the other end say as soon as I brought the phone to me ear.

“Mary, Mary is that you, luv? What’s wrong, lovie?” I’d asked, immediately leanin’ forward in my chair, in the back of my head knowin’ what was comin’ but hating to think it could be true.

My niece had started crying into the phone, and I kept askin’ her over and over, “What’s wrong, Mary? Is it your Mum, your Dad?”

“Mum. Mum’s gone, Auntie Liz. She’s gone.” She’d started sobbing into the phone and it’d hurt to hear it.

I had been glad I’d been sitting down when she said it, when she put it out there. “Tell your Dad I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay luv? Promise me you’ll tell him, luv.” My hand had been shakin’ as I said it, and a minute later after tellin’ her to make sure to have somethin’ to drink, I’d set the phone down – nearly thrown it down more like. I’d gone downstairs to the lounge where I knew George would be, I taken on look at him, lookin’ so beautiful, and curled up against him on the sofa.

While he’d held me tightly, I’d told him. If it was possible for him to hold me tighter, he did. He knew how difficult this was goin’ to be for Paul, and how though I didn’t come out and say it, it’d hit home a bit bein’ what she’d died of.

“Join me in a few days?” I’d asked quietly, my head under his chin.

George had known better than anyone how things would be and that I needed to go alone, at least for a few days. I’d felt his neck move as he’d nodded. “He’s me mate too, Liz. I’ll follow you down in a few days.” I’d sat like that with him for a while longer, holdin’ him so tightly as the pink elephant in the room, his own diagnosis ran through me head. I couldn’t talk ‘bout it then, I’d surely break if I did.

When I’d arrived at the ranch in Tucson, Mary had opened the door in a pose similar to her mum when I’d shown up at their farm in Scotland the day after Paulie’d made the announcement heard ‘round the world. “Auntie Liz.” She’d said as soon as she’d seen me and a second later, I had my arms tight ‘round her just like Linda’d done for me that morning.

Mary had taken me to the living room where my two other nieces, plus James, and Paulie were gathered. I’d given both Heather and Stella the same tight hugs as they’d asked me about my flight. I’d told them it was fine. Knowin’ that James was very much like his dad, I’d hugged him briefly and touched his cheek. And then there was Paulie. Me older brother.

“Hullo, Liz.” He’d looked tired and numb. His little smile was tight.

“Come on Paulie. Let’s go make you a cuppa, ‘ok.” And not waiting for him to answer, I’d wrapped an arm ‘round his shoulders and we’d gone to the kitchen where I’d set ‘bout takin’ care of him the best way I knew how. The kids had followed, and soon enough, they were all sittin’ round the table while I fussed over the tea and then set Mary to fryin’ some eggs and Stella to gettin’ the toast and pot of butter.

Paul didn’t say much, not that I expected him to. He fussed over his children, tellin’ them to get some rest if they could, that their mum wouldn’t have wanted them to sit around mopin’ all day. He’d smiled a bit, and generally played it stoic. I’d known it’d be that way so I kept out of it, stickin’ around because I he was me brother and I knew he needed me there.

Later that night, after havin’ spent most of the evenin’ in the lounge with Mary, Stella, and Heather, they’d called it a night. Paulie’d headed off to rest hours before.

“Thanks for coming, Auntie Liz.” Stella had said to me before headin’ off herself. I’d looked at my niece who looked more like Paulie than any of the others and had replied, “Where else would I be, luv? I’ll see you in the mornin’. Try and get some shut eye, ok?” She’d nodded and hugged me before leavin’ the room.

I had set about the next hour or so tidying up a bit, though it wasn’t a favourite pastime of mine. I’d rung each of my kids to tell them that I was ok and to keep an eye on their dad. I’d also rung George to let him know that I was well and that I missed him. Speakin’ to him helped in calmin’ down and I brewed a new pot of tea while we spoke. “Tell Paul I’ll ring him tomorrow,” he’d said as he’d rung off and I’d said I would.

Cup in hand, I’d made my way upstairs in that dark house. I’d knocked on Paul’s bedroom door before headin’ inside. The lights were switched off, and he’d been lying on the floor next to their bed, arms behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling.

“Fancy a cuppa, Paulie?” I’d asked as I quietly shut the door behind me. He didn’t look at me as he said, “I’m fine, thanks Liz.”

I’d set the cup on a table and not caring how silly I’d look doin’ this at my age, I’d puttered over, and laid down on the floor next to Paul, shoulder to shoulder. Paul didn’t turn to look at me, he just kept lookin’ straight ahead. “I rang off with George a few minutes ago. He said to tell you he’d ring you tomorrow. He wanted to give you a little time before...”

“Yeah.”

“Have you spoken to anyone yet?”

He nodded, “A few. It’s like a thousand people have rung to pay their respects.”

“I’m sure Linda would’ve loved that – thousands of people tyin’ up her phone line.” I’d chuckled, and strangely enough he did too for a split second as we remembered the way Mary and Heather would tie up the line for hours and hours on end when they were younger and how it’d annoyed Linda to no end.

That’s when we’d gotten to talkin’. Not ‘bout anything serious mind, but I knew it helped to distract Paulie if I just waffled on, though I wasn’t the usual type to do so. I talked to him about Dhani bein’ in the states for school and how George and I missed our youngest, and how Sam had started seein’ a girl from Germany, and how Louise was apprenticing with set designers at the Royal Theatre. I told him about Meg’s holiday in India with our old friend Ravi and his wife, and how much she loved it out there. I’d told him ‘bout all the small little things goin’ on in my life because I knew it helped.

He’d talked a little about Mary’s photographs, Stella at Chloé...the usual. I’d known it would comfort him to talk about his children, and when he got quiet again, I said, “You both did a wonderful job with ‘em, Paulie, you and Linda. Then again Lin knew that, quite the preening peahen ‘bout her babies, you know. Couldn’t find a prouder mum if you tried.” Pieces and pieces of paper with mad squiggles stuck on the icebox, kids’ name and date the masterpiece was created written on the corner, gave evidence to that.

It was a bit startling when I saw the first teardrop come down the side of his face, and then the next one came, and then the next. Cryin’ didn’t come easily to either of us. “Oh Paulie.” I’d whispered before pulling him against me, tucking his head underneath me chin. “S’alright Paulie, I know Paul. I know, luv.” I’d whispered against his temple, rubbin’ his back in the comfortin’ way that our mum used to over forty years before. Just he’d done for me, I didn’t make him say anythin’, I just kept on doin’ what I was doin’.

“I’m glad you came, Lizzy.” He’d said finally.

“Where else would I be, Paulie? At my advanced age, there’s little else I can do to fill my time than to become a meddlin’ old lady. ‘Cor if only our dad could see us now – tellin’ me that all my talk from my younger days was comin’ back to bite me in my arse!”

“True colours shinin’ at last.”

I dropped a kiss on the top of head and wrapped my fingers around his. Just a way that I was gettin’ a little softer in my old age. I pulled back to lie next to him on the floor, shoulder to shoulder like before. We were quiet, but it was a nice kind of quiet. He continued to hold my hand tightly.

“Y’know I gave it up years ago but we can share a ciggie of you know what.” I’d eventually said into the dark with a devious smile. Paul had laughed and the sound had been good.

“Isn’t it against your Hare Krishna ways to smoke dope?”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” I’d replied with a conspirin’ sort of smile and within minutes, Paul and I were passin’ a rather impressive lookin’ joint between us. A bit later, once the joint was down to a small nub, Paul turned to me and asked me somethin’ that had been goin’ through my head a bit since I’d gotten word from day before, “Do you get yourself checked out regularly?”

I nodded against his shoulder. “I had the all clear when I saw my G.P. last month.” When I’d tilted my chin up to be able to look at him properly, I’d seen the fresh trickle of tears.

“If it happened to you too Liz, or my girls, or yours...” He didn’t finish. I nodded because that had always been a nigglin’ fear in the back of me head.

Eventually I spoke again, sayin’ something that I probably should’ve said to him years before. “Paul, do you remember that day, years and years ago...when you came to see me after...I didn’t come to the studio for a few days?” I didn’t have to elaborate, he’d known what I was sayin’.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. I never told you that. Thanks.” I saw him nod. We’d held hands through the night, though our palms got sweaty. Months later, after Mary had given birth to her first son Arthur and I’d gone to see her, she’d told me that she’d stopped by her dad’s room to check in on him early in the mornin’ and had found us on curled up together asleep on the floor, hands still held tightly together. It was a favour that Paul would return in fewer years than expected.

“It was a rough time for the entire family, because we all loved Linda, but we knew that she wouldn’t want us to sit ‘round sad for days and days on end. She’d want us to live life, to savour it. Knowin’ that helped all of us in the end, I think.” I told the reporter after bringin’ meself back to the present, and she nodded in what I assumed to be understandin’.

“Did you spend a lot of time with Paul in those days?”

“As much as I could, yeah.”

“What were your thoughts on Heather Mills when –“

I interrupted her. “I’ve got to stop you there. I will not discuss what happened with you, sorry. Don’t ask because you’re not gettin’ an answer about that. All I’ll say is that I have a wonderful little niece, but that’s it.” The last thing Paul would want me to do is talk about his second marriage and then all the shit that had gone down durin’ his divorce. I’d been glad I was a recluse of sorts and not mad about the press, or else I’d have embarrassed meself my callin’ that bint a lyin’ tart for the horrible things she said about Paul. I’d kept me tongue ‘cos of my niece, and the last thing I wanted to do was hurt Bea. I hadn’t been quite so keen to keep it quiet ‘round Mary or Stella, but ‘round Paulie and Bea, I did.

The reporter began drumming her fingers on the table, but didn’t press it. Even if she’d tried to, it would’ve remained a stern ‘No’. The last thing I needed was draggin’ all that mudslingin’ out in the open; it’d caused me family enough grief as it was.

“When Linda had died, George had recently been diagnosed with lung cancer, right?” She said the words carefully, and I had to appreciate the effort it was takin’ the girl to come out with it. I’d been expectin’ we’d get here all along. I’d known what I was agreein’ to months ago.

“It was throat cancer first and after speadin’ became lung cancer. A lump was found in his neck and after it was analysed, we were told what it was.” I stopped speakin’ for a minute, rememberin’ the day we’d received the results, and the instant rush of fear I’d had when it was out in the open.

“I-“

“Look, I know what you want to know about all of this, so let me just tell you ‘right.” I interrupted, and I knew that I was bein’ rude, but if I didn’t get it out now, I wouldn’t. I knew meself too well to think otherwise. “We did everything we could – for God’s sake – we were fortunate ‘cos money wasn’t a problem and we could pay and did pay for the best doctors...the best treatments, but they didn’t work.”

He’d been so ill. The lad with the madcap hair and tight drainpipe jeans who’d gone ‘round doin’ touristy stuff with me in Hamburg durin’ their first visit over...the beautiful dark-haired boy I’d married with his gorgeous toothy grin had become so very ill. Seein’ it, bein’ there with him every day, goin’ with him to every appointment, and knowin’ that there was nothin’ I could do ‘bout it had been the worst feelin’ the world.

“I don’t know what to do.” I’d said to Cyn one day, confessin’ it to her like it was some dirty sin. She’d rung to check in on me. “Being there in the good times and the bad is all you can do, Lizzy. You’re doing everything you can and that’s more than enough, luv. You need to believe that.”

“He died in the early afternoon on 29th November, 2001, and it was so peaceful. There were pictures of Krishna and Rama by his side and it was a great comfort to him.” I felt a terrible lump in me throat, but I knew that I needed to keep goin’ on with what I was tellin’ her. “So many of his mates, of the people whose lives he’d touched, came to see him in the weeks leadin’ up to his death. He meant so much to many people. He was so loved.”

“By you especially?” The reporter asked and I shrugged before givin’ a shake of my head and laughin’ a bit, despite meself.

“You know, even at his sickest, he’d never been too ill to share a joke, or give someone a smile. He’d never been too sick to play the ukulele or to give me the occasional naughty look and say things that would have made girls half my age blush.” I smiled a bit, unable not to. “Yes, I loved him, and bless him, he loved me as well. He was such a good man, a lovely, lovely man.”

“He wanted you to be happy.”

“He wanted everyone to be happy. He didn’t want me to live my life hatin’ the bastard who’d broken into our house and tried to stab ‘im, he didn’t want us to be angry at God for what was happenin’ to him, and when all that shit happened with the fuckin’ doctor who made him sign that fuckin’ guitar for his kid, he didn’t want me to be angry at him either. ‘You’ll be ok, Liz. You’ll be ok’ was somethin’ he’d tell me over and over whenever I’d get down ‘bout what was goin’ on.” I responded.

“Listen here Mrs. Harrison, you’re not allowed to go ‘round wearin’ black, ok? It makes yer arse look massive, reason why you were banished to the back with Ringo in the early days ‘cos John and Paul didn’t want you obstructin’ the view up front.” George had said to me in our garden a few months before he’d died.

“Ya daft bastard. My arse doesn’t look massive in black!”

“Yeah it does,” he’d answered before going back to trimmin’ the rose bush. “They didn’t want to hurt your feelin’s so they kept it from ya, but it’d always come up when you weren’t around – ‘George, did you see the stern on Liz today – I think her bottom is quickly takin’ over the rest of her body mate!’ So you mustn’t wear black, ok?” He’d looked at me from under his thick brows, “Ya know I love you dearly girl, fat bottom or not.”

“Why did you decide to have him cremated?”

“It’s what he wanted. He wanted to have his ashes spread over the Ganges, and that’s what we did. The entire ‘ashes to ashes, and dust to dust’ thing.” The day we’d done it had been especially bright and sunny – it’d felt very fittin’ on a day like that.

“Do you ever feel George. Does anything ever happen that makes you go ‘He’s here’?”

“I haven’t seen his ghost or anythin’ if that’s what yer askin’!” I chuckled. “It’s more like a sense of peace. If somethin’ trying is goin’ on in me life, I’ll feel a sense of calm and I’ll know it’s him tellin’ me to calm the fuck down!”

“Your youngest son Dhani organised the Concert for George a year after his death. What did you think of it?”

“It was beautiful, absolutely. Seein’ with me own eyes that George was so loved...’cor, there’s no way to describe it. Everyone that was important in his life was there; it was great.” Seein’ our four kids up there with all of George’s mates had been wonderful. It’d been a night of celebratin’ his work, his incredible talent as a musician, and the beauty of his person.

“Why did you decide to not perform?”

“The last thing I would’ve wanted was to start snivellin’ up there and makin’ it all ‘bout me. ‘Sides, that night wasn’t for me, it was for our kids, for the millions of fans who loved George. They loved it, and that’s the important thing, not the wife.”

“That probably would’ve made them love it even more!”

“Bless!”

“It’s been established that George was the one who became interested with joining together the music of the Beatles with the acrobatics of Cirque du Soleil. How did that entire process come about really?” The reporter asked, like she’d been doing throughout this interview, jumpin’ from topic to topic, but I’d quickly learned that topics were fair game and could and would come back.

I drank a long drink of tea, and knew I’d earned it. “George had become great friends with one of the founders of Cirque and was the one who brought the topic up with Paul, Ringo, and Yoko. He really wanted to see it come to fruition, so after his death, I continued to push for it as well.”

“The premise of LOVE, which so many fans have loved, is that it wasn’t about remixing The Beatles with other artists, The Beatles’ songs were being mixed with other songs, except for While My Guitar Gently Weeps. George Martin, your long-time producer asked you to assist him in arranging a string section for that song didn’t he?” I nodded.

“Dominic Champagne really wanted to use a demo version that George had made of the song, but both George Martin and myself thought it was too quiet for what the production needed so we set about arrangin’ a string section—“

“You played the cello.”

I chuckled, “That I did. I think George would’ve liked it – even if me and George Martin did take the rock out of it!”

The reporter laughed. “Were you able to see a rehearsal of the show?”

“No, I wanted to be surprised. Paul was very involved though – all of us were when it came to the mixin’ of songs, we gave poor George Martin and his son Giles no respite! I decided to wait until I was able to see it openin’ night with the rest of ‘em.”

“And what did you think of it?”

“It was magical, so beautiful. I couldn’t have imagined anything like it. I just remember sittin’ next to Paulie and Sam and havin’ the most naff smile on me face. It’s such a beautiful show. For all the shit that took place towards the end of The Beatles, seein’ a physical manifestation of some of our songs and it bein’ so bloody gorgeous is overwhelmin’. George would have loved it, and I know John would’ve too.”

I had a smile on my face, after what seemed like ages of talkin’ with her, I had a smile on my face.

“I hate to sound corny, but you’ve lived a very full life, Liz.”

I chuckled, because it was true. “I was lucky to do a lot, that’s true.”

“You went from being a young girl who dreamed of playing the cello, to being a guitarist...a multi-instrumentalist really in one of the biggest rock groups that ever existed. You fell in love with one of those mop-topped lads and married him, and had a family together. Even though you never released a solo album, you’re featured on those of your former band mates and extended groups of friends. You kept close and don’t seem to have lost who you are. Would you say that’s true, Liz?”

It was like bein’ asked to weigh the outcome of your life. “I told you before, I was just very lucky. I don’t feel that I’m any better or worth anymore than anyone else out there livin’ their life. Fortunately for me, I’ve always had people ‘round me who’ve kept me feet on the ground, who wouldn’t have put up with any funny business. That’s how it was when I was in The Beatles – I had four blokes to keep me in me place. They could be right bastards at times, that’s true, but I never deny that I am fortunate to ‘ave known and loved all of ‘em.

I know I’m pretty fuckin’ lucky, even nowadays when the things that make me the happiest are bein’ able to spend time with my grandkids, gossipin’ on the phone with me brothers and playin’ music. I can’t bitch too much ‘bout me life because it would be unfair. If you’re askin’ for is for me to give you the ‘moral of the story’ it’s this: Your life is what you make of it, and despite the sad times, the good times in my life far outweigh ‘em. As long as yer able to have that, then yer good.”

Nancy-the-reporter finished her cup of coffee, and laughed when I apologised for forcin’ her to drink gallons of it. She packed up her things, and we took a walk through George’s gardens. I told her about the rose bushes he’d planted and kept for me, and how they seemed to always be the nicest come Spring. Before makin’ her way back to her car down the way, she gave us a hug and thanked me.

“It was so lovely to meet you, Liz.”

“You too. You made this experience a lot easier than I’d imagined it would be!” And she’d laughed. “Give my regards to your son, let me know how his playin’ goes.” I meant it, too.

I stood on the driveway until she made it through the gates. I waved ‘Hullo’ at the guards who kept watch by it and turned to go back inside. I felt naked, like me insides were hangin’ out for all to see. It felt strange to have spoken to someone about the course of my life, or most of it anyhow. There were big chunks I’d kept to meself, but I’d opened up about stuff I’d never discussed publically before and that was both frightenin’ and liberatin’ at the same time. Come what might from it, I’d done it, and I had to be proud of meself for that.

I returned to the kitchen and began tidyin’ up a bit. Somethin’ told me that I’d be receiving a ring in ‘bout – I looked down at my watch – fifteen to twenty minutes to have me tell him word for word what I’d told the reporter. Nosey git.

My rarely used mobile rang in my pocket and I didn’t have to be genius to know who it was.

“Yes, hullo?” I said into the phone, makin’ a point of draggin’ it out and soundin’ properly miserable and the like.

“Top of the evenin’ to you, Lizzy!”

“Paulie, Paulie, Paulie, how did I know it was goin’ to be you mate? Nosey git, you must’ve known that I just finished me interview! Do you have people spyin’ on me, lovie? Followin’ me whereabouts?” I asked.

“You have very dependable staff.”

“I really didn’t want to sack anyone today, you know!”

He laughed. “You’re a vindictive old hen, what can I say? So tell me, Lizzy me dear, how did your interview go?” And settling down into my chair overlookin’ the back garden with George’s roses, I proceeded to tell him. And it was grand. Most of it anyway.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is very special to me, so thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, even if it required briefly suspending your belief! XD


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